


One Light in the Darkness

by lightscreener



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 38,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8373442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightscreener/pseuds/lightscreener
Summary: Following the rise of a dangerous empire of organics, Hot Rod finds himself in Tarn's 'care'.





	1. Chapter 1

Just how long he had been in the custody of the Decepticon Justice Division, Hot Rod didn't know. 

When Tarn had taken him from Meltdown, the masked Decepticon's clawed hands had quested over the Autobot's frame, and then Megatron's executioner had drawn him close and whispered something into Hot Rod's audial that had sent him offline. He had been in recharge a long time, dreaming darkly. His processor churned with strange visions of swirling night skies, treacherous waters, and the caresses of a voice that was an entire symphony coiling around his spark. 

Hot Rod had come to in a narrow, dark cell, his chronometers reading nonsense.

Resetting them hadn't helped, and he had given up after the third reboot. He suspected he needed to be recalibrated by a doctor, and he suspected he would not see one again. The DJD knew he was online, because at certain intervals someone would push a cube of energon through a slot in wall. At first he had thought about starving himself, but it seemed pointless and turned out he didn't have the willpower to go through it anyways - though at one point he had collected a pile of five cubes before his growling tanks and the warnings flashing on his HUD had gotten the better of him.

There was very little to see, and the only illumination in the little oubliette came from his biolights. There wasn't even a door, but that wasn't necessarily unusual. One of the walls probably transformed outwards, but no amount of searching had revealed the seams. The boredom was maddening, and Hot Rod wondered if this wasn't part of whatever torture was waiting for him. If they were just going to leave him in here in the dark, forever. 

When he laid very still on the tiny berth, Hot Rod could sense movement. The barest pitch and shift of a vessel. He was on their ship, there had been no cells like this on the Harbinger, where Meltdown had kept him. They were flying. They hadn't taken a spacebridge or made a quantum jump since he'd been online, which he would have sensed, even if the cell was heavily shielded. 

It made sense, he guessed. There was nowhere safe left to spacebridge _to_.

The DJD were on the run now, just like any Autobots who were left.

Most likely, they were headed somewhere uninhabited, or making for the Galactic Rim. Anything to get away from the Dhar'vhok - the aliens who called themselves the Black Bloc Consortium. Aliens who, among other things, didn't consider Cybertronians to be sentient beings. They had come en masse when the planet had fallen, like zap vultures who had been perched in the wings, waiting to strike. The BBC's warbands had dragged away thousands of Cybertronians as they had tried to flee the planet, and killed all those who wouldn't come quietly, Autobot and Decepticon alike.

Hot Rod sighed and rolled over, his spoiler-wings scraping against the wall. 

The DJD were keeping him, Hot Rod figured, until one of them decided wanted him. Tarn had already come pretty close, back on the Harbinger, and Hot Rod could still remember the stroke of the Decepticon's hands, and the caress of claws over the seam on his chest. The husky, whispered command to open up, so the DJD commander could see. 

None of it really mattered. Whenever it happened, they would chain him to a berth and use him until he offlined from it. Primus knew Meltdown had already gotten started on that. Long recharge had helped him heal somewhat, but Hot Rod's frame was still aching and sore from his last bout of Decepticon captivity, and the worst sensations were collected in his valve.

Sometimes he wished they'd just get on with it. What were they _waiting_ for, anyways?

Maybe they had other captives and they were working their way down a list to him. They liked lists, didn't they? Maybe they got off the idea of leaving him here to rust in the dark until he went insane from it. Maybe it was that he wasn't all that important or special, a tiny voice from inside his spark reminded him of that, and he curled in on himself in the narrow berth. 

Maybe it was that he wasn't good for anything but opening his legs. 

Hot Rod touched the Autobrand on his chest. It had long ago ceased to be a source of comfort, and this point, it was nearly unidentifiable, hardly more than a red smear. There were deep burns around it, barely healed, where his plating was scarred and pitted. His paint blistered and cracked. Meltdown had liked to grab at it during an assault. Liked to tease him about it. Liked burning him there. 

It ached, and if another Autobot saw it, he was sure he'd catch hell about the angle and the shoddy shape his Autobrand was in, but Hot Rod hadn't yet tried to remove it. 

He was, he was fairly certain, the last Cybertronian wearing one.


	2. Chapter 2

Tarn had watched the video feed that Soundwave compiled of the Ark's destruction twenty four thousand, three hundred, and eighty one times.

If you counted variant footage compiled by less reliable sources, the number could easily be quintupled.

Resetting the feed, he prepared for his twenty four thousandth, three hundredth and eighty second viewing.

Historically, the events were well known, even outside of Cybertron.

Faced with the overwhelming military might of the Decepticons, the Autobots had attempted to flee the planet, only to be thwarted by a brilliant bombing run carried out by Starscream and his Command Trine. The attack had destroyed the last of the Autobot-controlled spaceports, and seemingly trapped them on the planet.

Seemingly, if not for the damnable Prime.

Optimus had, somehow, discovered the Great Ark of Solus Prime, preserved in ancient vaults deep beneath the surface of the planet. More than that, he had healed the ship (though Tarn was loathe to think of it in such religious terms), communing with it and restoring it to full functionality, allowing his followers to evacuate.

The rest of history played out in real time on the video feed Tarn was watching.

The Ark soared towards orbit as Decepticon artillery darkened the air around it. Flight-capable Decepticons attacked en masse, their black-purple forms like insects against the towering, golden bulk of the Ark's hull. Their weapons were little more than an inconvenience to such a ship, but there was a green-silver ripple of energy in air as the Nemesis translated in via spacebridge. The sight of the ship made Tarn's spark-pulse quicken, as it always did.

As the Nemesis closed in, scouring through the Ark's shields with its cannons, two more bridges signaled the arrival of the Dragontooth and the Harbinger, and Tarn couldn't help feel a small measure of pride that a ship as historically significant as the Harbinger now belonged to him.

It had been Meltdown's ship, after all.

Harried by the three Decepticon warships, the Ark staggered, and then slowed. Over the feed, Tarn could hear Starscream arguing for a boarding action if they intended to capture the Prime while he was still online. He could hear Soundwave chastising him, and, in any case, Tarn doubted that his master's second was brave enough to fly into a firefight the likes of which was playing out outside the Nemesis - regardless of any personal glory it might grant him.

As a battery of lances staved in its side, the Ark listed dangerously, and a flickering green portal opened. The Autobots were engaging a billion-year-old spacebridge in a final, desperate attempt to get away.

Tarn supposed that, in the end, it had worked.

The portal wavered and went into flux, lines of green energy streaking across the battlefield. Whatever ancient device or magic within the Ark had opened it, the powers invoked were clearly beyond the control of the Last Prime and his followers.

Tarn watched as swaths of jets were incinerated or batted out of the air like turboflies. An arc of energy as wide as the main highway in Iacon lanced through the Dragontooth and split it in half. It had been unsalvageable, Tarn knew, the sparks aboard all lost. In the wake of roiling fires and splintering, shrieking metal, the Harbinger banked and pulled away, just barely preserving itself and its crew.

Meltdown had, at least in Tarn's opinion, quite the sense of self-preservation.

Or rather, he used to.

Now he didn't have anything other than a brain module in his ignorant, traitorous mouth.

On the holoscreen, the Nemesis plunged forward into the chaos, a beastformer striking at the throat of its prey. Tarn could hear the command staff arguing on the bridge. Soundwave, for what was surely the first time, agreeing with Starscream, who was now urging caution. Megatron ignoring them both. Perhaps because of the battle outside, Tarn's master spoke very little, either on this recording or any other, but even the distant sound of Megatron's voice tended to lift Tarn's spirits.

On the viewscreen, the portal burst, the energy surging outwards, beyond all control. It swallowed the Ark, and then the Nemesis, those helpless fliers caught in proximity. The picture bled out into static. Soundwave's feeds went dead.

Tarn knew the rest. When the skies had cleared of dust and ash, the Ark was gone, along with the Nemesis.

Neither had ever been found.

For a time the Autobot and Decepticon Causes had continued out of sheer momentum. Optimus and Megatron were powerful figures, mechs of intense personalities and overwhelming charisma. Invincible. Untouchable. Certain that they would reappear at any moment, their followers had dusted themselves off, picked up the pieces, and carried on.

Then a century had passed. Then two. Then two hundred.

It had gotten to the point that even _Tarn_ saw little use in policing a Cause that no longer existed. Prejudice and violence from organics had reached a tipping point, and those Decepticons who remained were merely trying to survive.

It was then that the Dhar'vhok had appeared.

Individually, one was no threat to a Cybertronian, but their warbands numbered in the thousands, and they organized their society into elite kill-squads led by the psychic Overcaste. Their burgeoning Empire, the Black Bloc Consortium, now spanned nineteen star systems.

In a way, Tarn had to admire the efficiency, but it would never have gotten this out of hand if Megatron had still been around.

This was where the Prime's coddling of organic races had gotten them.

Driven to the edge of the galaxy and threatened with extinction. Tarn felt annoyance at the state of things prickle over his plating, and he had to fight down the urge to calm the sensation with a few thousand rotations of his t-cog.

The Dhar'vhok did not acknowledge Cybertronians as sentient, and a captured Cybertronian faced either slavery (if they seemed docile enough) or dissection for parts (if they were an Autobot or a Decepticon). They were relentless hunters, and if you believed the stories some of the Neutrals told, their psychics could detect Cybertronians who were in their alt-mode. There was no hiding.

It had finally become untenable.

...though the function Megatron had given him was its own reward, and while Tarn had never wanted more than to serve, it had become clear to him that the Cause had been left in his hands.

When Megatron returned, and here Tarn took a moment to remind himself that his master _would_ return, it would be pointless if there were no Decepticons left to return _to_.

Tarn reset the feed. Previous viewings had never given a hint of where the High Command had vanished to, but perhaps one more--

"Tarn, are you still in here?"

Tarn offlined his optics and sighed. Deathsaurus. For a moment, Tarn wondered why he hadn't sensed the dragonformer approaching, but he reminded himself that unlike vehicles or tools, it was nearly impossible to sense a Cybertronian in beast mode. It was one of the reasons Deathsaurus and his followers had survived for so long, even with his Warworld near the edge of BBC territory.

Yes, Deathsaurus was certainly in beast mode, and he eased himself through the door with a certain amount of sinuous grace.

"Ah," the dragonformer said as he approached, his talons clicking heavily against the floor. "You're watching your _stories_ again."

Tarn rolled his optics, but refused to let Deathsaurus bait him. He had taken the traitor off the List because they needed unity, not more petty arguing over wounded Decepticon pride.

...but it was still annoying.

"These," said Tarn, allowing the tiniest hint of authority to creep into his voice, "are important historical and cultural documents."

Deathsaurus huffed, and flopped down on the floor, curling around Tarn's chair and resting his chin on his forearms. Even in root mode, the dragonformer was larger than Tarn, and in beast mode he was truly massive. Impressive. Powerful. Tarn just barely managed to clamp down on and dismiss 'handsome' from the list of adjectives. He couldn't deny his penchant for a larger mech, especially one who would be so capable of dominating him. It was hard not to marvel at how much mass Deathsaurus subspaced and the grace with which he carried himself.

Absently, Tarn reached out to rest one hand on the dragonformer's helm, scratching the sensitive plating there, and smiling behind his mask when he was rewarded with a soft, low purr. He reminded himself that interfacing with a beastformer was taboo, obscene.

"You should watch them," Tarn offered. "Or we could watch them together and I could educate you on their significance."

"If you haven't figured out where Megatron is after your eight billionth viewing," Deathsaurus said, opening his jaw wide and venting heavily, like an organic creature yawning, "I doubt I'm going to get anything from it."

For a while, they sat in silence, and Tarn completed his twenty four thousandth, three hundredth and eighty third viewing.

"I came to talk about the Autobot," Deathsaurus said, when it had completed.

"Speak freely," Tarn said. He wasn't Megatron, and he wouldn't punish one of his followers for disagreeing with him. Especially not Deathsaurus, who commanded the loyalty of the majority of their army. To say nothing of the mech's personal prowess. Tarn was an excellent small unit leader, but he was a bureaucrat, not a general. Deathsaurus had charisma, and his soldiers adored him, they looked to him for inspiration and leadership. Tarn was a creature who inspired fear, and it was a mantle he had taken up willingly, but he couldn't deny that it left him isolated. Even lonely.

One of the burdens of leadership, Tarn liked to tell himself. Megatron had borne it, and so he would too.

"Is he really a Prime?" Deathsaurus glanced up at Tarn. "I wasn't there."

Tarn shrugged. "Historically speaking, mechs have been chosen by Primus and ascended without the Matrix before."

"And this one?"

"I doubt it," Tarn lied.

"If he was, he could heal the planet." Deathsaurus ruffled his plating under the caress Tarn's fingers. "Restart the Core. We could go home. Didn't Meltdown say--"

"Meltdown said a lot of things, before the end. You have quite a bit of faith in his berth slave." Tarn glanced down at him. "Where did this come from?"

"You said you saw the Autobot's star when you were Journeying," Deathsaurus glanced up at him. "That's what led us to Meltdown, isn't it?"

"Psychically, the Autobot is very loud." Tarn shrugged. "It doesn't mean he's a Prime."

"You killed Meltdown so you could have him," Deathsaurus said, after a long pause. "Maybe you should at least let Nickel clean him up."

Now _there_ was an assumption that had to be corrected.

While Megatron allowed his Decepticons to keep captives and prizes, and while the right to their frame was the reward for capturing a living Autobot, Tarn had always found rape distasteful. Overlord was, yes, going to get the most thorough taste of his own medicine that Tarn could devise, but the act still repulsed him. It was duty to him, an exercise of power, more than it was desire.

"I killed Meltdown," Tarn said, coolly, "because he was more preoccupied with raping that Autobot than he was with the health of the Cause or showing the proper respect to its new leaders. I didn't kill him in a spat over his berth slave. Surely you don't think so little of me?"

Deathsaurus murmured something, engines rumbling, but from the touch of his fields, and the way they mingled, he seemed to approve. "It's been a long time," he said, "since I've seen any Autobots. I think he might be the last one."

"That," said Tarn, with a low chuckle, "is very likely the case."


	3. Chapter 3

Meltdown's hands were on him everywhere, his energy fields bearing down, and all Hot Rod could sense was possession and lust. The Decepticon's too large spike speared at him, filling his valve, straining his callipers. He'd learned to ignore the warnings that scrolled down his HUD during Meltdown's assaults. It wasn't like the tank could get himself a new Autobot, so Hot Rod doubted that Meltdown would ever kill him outright.

Magnetic cuffs and a looped chain kept Hot Rod's hands above his head, secured firmly to the top of the berth, but when he'd been dragged from his cell, Meltdown hadn't bothered to chain his legs. 

The Decepticon liked it when Hot Rod fought back. Liked it when his captive gave him an excuse to lash out with a beating or throw a punch. Meltdown liked to hurt him, and Hot Rod had learned to ignore the aches from that too.

_Please, Primus,_ he thought, _just let it be over soon_.

Hot Rod had never before enjoyed solitude, but now all he had to look forward to were the brief moments that Meltdown left him in peace. He wanted to curl in himself, alone in the dark. Maybe if Meltdown was happy with him, he'd give him some energon. As it was, Hot Rod's energy levels were hovering around twenty percent. He was going to redline if Meltdown kept him for the whole night, the way the tank sometimes did. 

Pain mixed with arousal laced through him as Meltdown's heavy spike hit his ceiling node, and Hot Rod bit down on his glossa to stifle a vocalization. He didn't want to give Meltdown the pleasure of hearing it. 

"You were sparked for this," Meltdown rasped against his audial. The Decepticon ground into him, circling his hips, pressing at Hot Rod's ceiling node. "You belong on your back. You look exquisite with your legs spread, giving pleasure to your betters."

Hot Rod squeezed his optics shut, balling his hands into fists. His thighs were shaking where his legs were wrapped around Meltdown's waist. _Just overload already_ , he willed silently. _Please_.

Above him, the Decepticon's engines revved, cooling fans roaring as his thrusts increased in both pace and viciousness. Meltdown's fields blotted out everything else, and even the air around Hot Rod felt like it was boiling. Hot Rod couldn't sense anything but his captor, all he could see and feel was Meltdown's frame, the rest of the world seemed distant.

He whimpered, and he hated himself for it. 

Meltdown's engines roared, and Hot Rod felt the telltale swell of the Decepticon's spike a moment before he felt the heavy, thick spurts of Meltdown's transfluid. It filled his valve, stinging in the places where he was abused and raw. 

Then Meltdown's weight shifted and he jerked free, gripping his spike in one hand and pumping it eagerly, letting the jets of transfluid spill over Hot Rod's hips and chest.

When he was finished, the Decepticon cupped Hot Rod's cheek, thumbing over it in a mockery of a gentle touch. "It's a good look for you."

Hot Rod bit down on a sarcastic response. It wouldn't get him anywhere. He only wanted, desperately, to be fueled.

"Nothing to say?" Meltdown asked, poised above him, grinning. His spike had retracted, but his array was still bared, and even that was threatening. 

Hot Rod turned his head to one side, pressing his face into his arm, biting down on his lower lipplate. The Decepticon swung off his captive's frame and rose, crossing the room to his energon dispenser and extracting a cube. Hot Rod could feel Meltdown's filth inside him, still searingly hot and thick, and while all he wanted was to close up and regain some measure of dignity, he didn't want it trapped behind his panels. 

"Good," said Meltdown, tilting the cube and downing half of it in a single pull. "You're learning." 

He returned to the side of the berth and gripped Hot Rod by the chin, turning his head and holding the cube up to his lips. Knowing Meltdown would happily starve him into an automatic shutdown if given the chance, Hot Rod didn't protest or refuse it out of spite. He drank desperately, though Meltdown pulled the cube away after he'd taken barely three sips. 

"Try to look that eager the next time you're sucking my spike," Meltdown said, draining the last of the cube and dispersing it. He reached up and unwound the chains, freeing Hot Rod, who had learned better than to try and move away. 

The Decepticon's optics wandered over his frame lazily, until they were down between his legs. "Close up," he ordered. "I want you to feel me inside of you while you recharge."

The decision made for him, Hot Rod snapped his valve panel shut. Meltdown gripped him by his spoilers and wielded him down onto the floor next to the berth. Hot Rod's whole frame ached, and his legs were shaking badly enough that he didn't quite manage to get them under him properly. He hit the floor with a dull crash, pain radiating out from his hip. Rapidly, he scrolled through his error messages, but nothing looked broken, thank Primus.

"You can recharge here," he said. "I don't want to bother going to your cell if I want your frame again tonight."

Hot Rod curled up and bit down on his lipplates until he tasted energon.

"Of course," Meltdown went on, because Decepticons apparently loved the sound of their own voices, "if the other Autobots hadn't escaped, you wouldn't have to spend every night in my berth."

Hot Rod didn't say anything. He turned on his side, wrapped his arms around himself and folded his spoiler-wings down in submission.

Meltdown chuckled. "They left you behind, you know. You were the one who came up with the escape plan and they abandoned you the moment the opportunity arose."

There was no constructive way to respond to that. It was the truth, after all. 

"They knew where you really belonged just as well as I do, didn't they?"

Hot Rod didn't answer, but the words _you were sparked for this_ swirled around in his processor and he looked straight ahead, at nothing.

No, wait. Not _nothing_.

There was a piece of glass under Meltdown's berth. How it had gotten there, Hot Rod didn't know. It was nearly as long as his forearm, and slightly curved along one side. Maybe it was someone's windshield glass. Hot Rod knew he hadn't been Meltdown's only victim. Maybe it was crystal, from an older grade of cube that hadn't been confined with an energy field. Maybe it was--

Above him, Hot Rod heard the berth creak as Meltdown moved to lay on it. He must have finally grown bored with tormenting his captive. 

In time, he heard Meltdown's ventilations even out, and as slowly as he dared, he reached for the glass.


	4. Chapter 4

Journeying was something that the Dhar'vhok shamans did, freeing the mind from the body so that it could traverse the vastness of space. Tarn was loathe to give any credence to organic traditions, but it had proved useful in leading him to other Cybertronians. The wayward Decepticon survivors, the Lost Colonies. Cybertronians were hunted and scattered, and with no energon to spare, it was the best way for Tarn to conduct his search.

The tank had learned the art in fits and starts, between screams and pleas and splintering bones and torn muscles. Dhar'vhok were remarkably tough for organics, but all to often, they died too quickly for Tarn too get much use from them. Out of necessity and over time, he had cultivated a light touch. Sometimes the repulsive organics would have the willpower to take their own lives before he got a chance to work on them, but they usually didn't, and it was a rare one who wouldn't talk eventually.

It had taken four centuries for his knowledge of the art to evolve into something more than fragmentary, and another three before he had made his first attempt.

Twenty centuries later, and he wouldn't have hesitated to call himself a master.

The seams of the Choir Room irised open as Tarn approached, then snapped closed as he passed through. They wouldn't open again until it was time for him to leave, the energy output he created while he was Journeying was too dangerous to risk exposing his team to.

It had led him to Deathsaurus, and to Nickel, but not to Megatron.

...each time he had chanced going further, and each time, it grew harder to return.

Tarn stepped into the circle of glyphs carved into the floor and knelt, resting his hands on his thighs. His frame was powerful. _He_ was powerful. Wondrous. Made of light. He could Journey further than any of the mongrel Dhar'vhok could have dreamed, and endure psychic stresses and tides of energy that would have torn them asunder.

He recalled the star that had illuminated the Void, the red-gold fire that had blotted out everything else. Tarn had been near an automatic shutdown when it passed him, and his mind had been dragged along its wake, like a coppermoth towards a flame.

It had warmed him, healed him, and he could do little more than marvel at the mech whose chamber could carry such a spark. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn he had found Optimus, lost out here at the edge of the Void.

Tarn didn't despair at the thought of finding the so-called Lord Prime first.

Wherever Optimus Prime was, Megatron would surely be nearby.

Every ounce of energy he had left, he had devoted to turning optics he didn't have away from that light and towards the other stars. Even the handful of seconds it had taken to map them and commit the thought to a memory file had felt like the worst kind of withdrawal. Tarn wanted to lose himself in that fire, let it warm him, feel it licking across his plating. He couldn't even recall leaving the Choir Room. Only waking up in the medbay to the sound of Nickel and Kaon yelling at each other and swearing elaborately.

He had been inside, she had told him, for a week. Even a frame as resilient as his could only take so much. How he had left the Choir Room, Tarn wasn't entirely sure. He must have crawled to the door while he was redlining.

Tarn had told her about the red star, and given the map to Kaon so he could adjust their course. Whatever it had been, it was calling to him.

As he loosed his mind from his frame and soared away from the ship, it called to him now, trying to beckon him back from whatever lay in wait for him. He could see the red-gold fire that was Autobot's spark, turned in on itself and at rest, but no less bright than it had been. The Autobot belonged to _him_ now, and the thought sent a thrill crawling over Tarn's plating. Tarn could keep him forever.

With such a light to guide him, it was safe to go further. It would be possible to find Megatron. It would--

It occurred to Tarn then, that Megatron would want the little Prime for himself. Chained to the foot of his throne, squirming beneath him in a berth, performing for him with another one of his favorites or perhaps a captive from the Ark. It was impossible not to feel some dismay at that realization, and Tarn chastised himself for questioning his Emperor's will. If he rescued the Nemesis and restored the Decepticons to their rightful place in the galaxy, surely Megatron would indulge his favorite executioner.

Especially if Megatron had Optimus for himself.

He rose up, frameless, above the Peaceful Tyranny. This close, he could see the sparks of his followers as well. Kaon's white-blue spark, with its trails of energy like the wings of a lighting bug. Flawed and tilted to one side, at an angle that seemed alarming, because his second suffered from _luminous inversus_. Nickel's spark, popping and churning and dark blue. Tesarus', green-yellow, and turning at two different frequencies, not unlike a grinder. Helex's, gold-orange, glowing like a magma smelter. Vos', pale pink, opening outwards like a lotus in bloom. Diamondback's, silver-grey and muted, already the color of death.

Deathsaurus, blue like the sky of an organic planet, flecked with gold marks that looked like scales. As handsome as--

Tarn dismissed the thought as he soared upwards and they all vanished. All but the whirling corona of the red sun burning inside the Autobot's spark chamber.

Orienting himself by its light, he left them all behind and left his mind drift into the Void.

Somewhere out there, Megatron was waiting for him.


	5. Chapter 5

Hot Rod pulled the shard of glass under his frame and slipped into fitful recharge. He dreamed in fragments. Of Nyon, of his Caretaker and his Caretaker's conjunx, of the Prime's Palace, of being praised and fed an energon treat, of the way the road had felt under his wheels - back when had still been able to drive.

He woke when Meltdown's foot hit him in the back, between his wings. The impact made his whole body jerk, and pain laced out from his spinal strut, but all Hot Rod could think about was the shard of glass. He held himself against the floor and kept his arm over it, praying that Meltdown hadn't noticed it.

Meltdown stretched and spread his legs, gesturing to Hot Rod to sit up as he clicked his spike panel aside and the organ pressurized.

Hot Rod did it, carefully, putting his knee over the piece of glass as he changed positions. Meltdown was still filthy from the night before, his spike glistening with stale transfluid, mixed with Hot Rod's lubricants and smears of his energon. The Decepticon was hot with arousal, but Hot Rod kept his optics fixed on the housing of Meltdown's spike. It was hard metal, and recessed deeply, without biolights or adornments. The glass wouldn't do much damage there.

A hand came to rest on the back of Hot Rod's helm and Meltdown guided him down until the head of his spike was bumping against Hot Rod's lipplates.

"Don't pretend you don't know what to do," Meltdown said, the words were a soft growl, mixed with the dregs of recharge. "Someone must have told you how good you look on your knees, a spike disappearing down your intake."

Quite a few mechs had told him that, but Hot Rod had no intention of giving Meltdown the satisfaction of a reply. His energy levels read twenty-two percent, and he needed every pip of it for what was going to come next.

He opened his mouth and the Decepticon thrust into it sharply, the blunt head of his spike hitting the soft mesh of Hot Rod's main intake. It hurt, there was no shortage of bruises and scrapes here either, and the taste of stale transfluid made him want to gag, but Hot Rod ignored it and brought his hands up to stroke the inside of Meltdown's thighs.

It coaxed a pleased moan out of the Decepticon, even as Hot Rod felt him out. Meltdown was a firebreather tank in his alt mode, and he was heavily armored. There were no gaps within reach, no weak points. Hot Rod slid his hands down, over Meltdown's knees, but he couldn't reach any of the joints or sensitive wiring, the plates were too tightly affixed.

 _Frag. Frag it all_. This might be his only chance, and he couldn't waste it.

Above him, Meltdown's hand tightened on Hot Rod's helm, and he felt the Decepticon angle his hips, the head of his captor's spike pushing down his intake, the sensitive mesh protesting. He was far from ready for it, and the pain made him spasm and gag. His hands grabbed and scraped at Meltdown's legs, just for the need to hold onto something.

Chancing a look, Hot Rod glanced up at Meltdown. The Decepticon's head was tilted back, his optics shuttered. It was somehow infuriating, even if Hot Rod knew it was in his best interests. Meltdown wasn't even looking, and all that fragging talk about how much he liked the sight!

Hot Rod rolled his optics and he tried to concentrate against the rough thrusts as he slid his hands up Meltdown's thighs to his spike housing. It all looked like hard metal, but now he explored it with his fingertips. There had to be a gap in his armor _somewhere_ \--

Meltdown's engines revved, eager and powerful. "I like that, Autobot. You really _were_ sparked to be a whore, weren't you?"

Hot Rod ignored it, and when his finger slid up, underneath the lip of the modesty panel, he felt the soft give of protoflesh. The gap was barely as wide as his finger, but when he touched it, Meltdown moaned and shuddered, and Hot Rod tasted a spurt of hot pre-fluid.

Perfect.

Hot Rod lifted his knee, careful not to let the Decepticon's thrusts throw him off balance. If he spit out Meltdown's spike, even by accident, he'd be punished, and whatever punishment his captor came up with would reveal the glass.

With one hand, he fingered the tiny gap of protoflesh, and with the other, he reached down and picked up the shard of glass. Meltdown was panting and venting above him, searingly hot, stupid and blind with lust.

Hot Rod shifted his grip on the shard, just slightly, and then plunged it deeply into the gap in Meltdown's spike housing.

The effect was immediate and satisfying, as Meltdown jerked away from him and screamed loudly enough that it stung Hot Rod's audials. The Decepticon's spike retracted so quickly and deeply that Hot Rod couldn't actually see where it had retreated into its housing. When Meltdown pulled back, Hot Rod jerked his wrist up, and the shard of glass broke off, deep enough that Meltdown would need a medic to pull it out.

Before he could recover, Hot Rod lunged at him, and though Meltdown was bigger and perhaps twice his mass, the attack had left the Decepticon so off balance that they tumbled off the other side of the berth when their frames collided.

Hot Rod brought what was left of the shard around and jammed it into Meltdown's neck cabling, severing his captor's secondary intakes, and the cut stopped just shy of the thicker cabling that made up the Decepticon's main intake. Frag. Hot energon spurted over Hot Rod's hands in a rush, and he let go of the shard to raise one fist and punch Meltdown across the face.

He was weak, and his frame was protesting and glitching, but the first punch felt so good he couldn't help from throwing another. It wasn't what Optimus would have done, but Hot Rod found he wasn't all that concerned.

Meltdown seemed to have recovered a little, enough to realize what was happening, and he reached up and closed one fist around Hot Rod's throat, his ventilations gurgling and wheezing. Hot Rod thrashed, trying to pull free.

It was then that it happened.

Hot Rod felt his spark waver, skip, and go into flux. The sensation wasn't painful, the way he had assumed dying would feel. There was a click that echoed through the dark expanse of the room, and his chestplates unlocked.

His spark bathed the room in red-gold fire, power cascading off of him like the corona of some Apocalypse-class warhead. Underneath him, Meltdown's optics were wide, uncomprehending and terrified to the point it had shut down all rational thought.

 _Light Against All Darkness, hear me_.

Hot Rod blinked. What the frag--

 _From failing hands, I now pass this light, O Demon-Slaying-Fire_.

Something was happening to him. His frame was transforming, reconfiguring itself, his energy levels read nonsense and glyphs cascaded down his HUD, burning into his optics. In the middle of it all someone reached out to cup his cheek and tilt his helm up, heavenwards. His finial opened like a lotus flower, and power flooded into it. Knowledge. Wisdom. Light. Stars.

It was--

Meltdown's fist connected with his face, and then it was nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

The only warning Hot Rod got was a light click. The hum of transformation echoed through the tiny space and the entire floor of the cell folded away.

He fell, and he couldn't help it, he screamed too.

He hit the ground hard, one of his spoiler wings crumpling underneath him, bent at an ugly angle. The impact popped something in his chest and knocked the ventilations out of him. His optical feed popped and glitched, and as he tried to reset it, a foot came down on his chest.

"Heya," said Tesarus, waving with one hand as Hot Rod's vision cleared. The open cell was above him, and at a guess, it was almost two hundred feet away. The grinder laughed. "Ah, frag Kaon. That never gets old, does it?"

Kaon was standing over him too, and Tarn's second was making no attempt to hide his loathing - though he didn't answer the question. There was a sharp buzz in the air all around the mech, like a light electrical burn. Vos stood was just behind Kaon, holding his elbow. The two DJD bruisers were here too, and the one Hot Rod recognized as Tesarus kept a foot on his chest, pressing him against the floor.

"You're sure?" Kaon said, half turning towards Vos.

Vos nodded. He pointed at the seam on Hot Rod's chest, or at least, where it would be if it weren't being blocked by a giant foot.

"Fine," Kaon ground out. "Bring him."

Before Hot Rod could protest, they hauled him up, wrenching his shoulders. He couldn't have kept pace with mechs the size of Helex and Tesarus under normal circumstances, and between the fall and the agony of his ruined spoiler wing, his whole frame protested. After a few hundred feet, he stopped trying and let them drag him.

Hot Rod knew the corridors of the Harbinger well enough, but this must be the DJD ship. What had Tarn called it, the Tyranny? He tried to keep track of which direction they took him in, but it was all one identical dimly lit corridor after another. There were spikes and dark outcroppings everywhere, and nothing in the way of adornments or personal effects. Decepticons, he was beginning to realize, did not have even the slightest hint of self-awareness.

When they came to a section with rows of evenly spaced doors, he at least recognized the layout. Crew quarters.

So that's what they wanted.

Panic didn't even descend on Hot Rod. Rather, it was amazement that they weren't more creative.

Helex and Tesarus mechhandled him through a set of double doors, following Kaon into a set of apartments. They were sparsely furnished, nothing more than a desk, a berth with no padding or blankets, and a shelf of dataslates. There wasn't even a holoscreen. With two gigantic mechs in the room, there was barely space to maneuver.

"Still think this is a bad idea," Helex rumbled.

"When _you're_ second-in-command," Kaon's tone was crisp and matter-of-fact, but Hot Rod sensed anger underneath it, "you can give orders."

"Hey," said Hot Rod, "are you guys at least going to take turns, or something? Because it's wild crowded in here. Maybe take me to a nicer room, because this--"

Kaon whirled around slapped him, hard enough that Hot Rod tasted energon.

"These are _Tarn's_ quarters," the blind mech hissed, "so show some respect."

"So," Hot Rod said as he looked around, "is Tarn actually, uh, coming to this party? Because it _really_ doesn't take four mechs to chain someone to a berth. Trust me, I have a lot of experience with this sort of thing."

Kaon's face twisted into an ugly smirk. "For your sake, let's hope he's coming. Drop him."

Helex and Tesarus released him so quickly he nearly fell on his face, and Hot Rod just barely got his arms under him to brace himself.

Kaon snapped his fingers. "Get up, Autobot, and follow me."

Vos was suddenly at Hot Rod's elbow and even though the rifle helped him stand, his legs felt shaky. The last few weeks (at least, Hot Rod _thought_ it had been weeks) had involved a cramped cell and lot of fitful recharge cycles, so there had been very little walking. Kaon went to one of the bare walls, pressed an invisible panel, and the hum of partial transformation filled the room as the wall retracted and slid away. Kaon passed through the archway and Hot Rod followed, Vos still holding his arm. There didn't seem to be any point in resisting, not yet.

"Down here is the Choir Room," Kaon explained as he walked. Helex and Tesarus stayed where they were, both of them far too big to fit through the passage.

The walls were bare metal, unadorned, but Hot Rod could just barely see a soft glow down at the end of the hallway. He had blue optics, like most mechs from the upper castes, and they had trouble with darkness. As for Kaon, he didn't seem to have any trouble navigating it, despite being blind. While he walked, Hot Rod stared at Kaon's back and wondered if he could win a fight with either one of them.

"What's a Choir Room?" Hot Rod asked.

Kaon made an exasperated noise. "It's a specialized chamber for containing the energy released by psychic Journeying."

"So... then, in addition to all that other slag he can do, Tarn is psychic?"

Kaon turned and nodded.

Hot Rod whistled. "Lucky him."

"I wouldn't use those words." Kaon stopped at the end of the hallway, in front of an iris ringed by glyphs. "The energy inside the Choir Room would be fatal to normal mechs. For that reason, the door is attuned to Tarn, and it opens only when in proximity to his spark signature."

Hot Rod hesitated. This seemed like it was going somewhere inventive, though it wasn't exactly what he had expected from the DJD. "What... does that have to do with me?"

"Tarn went inside some time ago," Kaon said, opening one hand and pulling up a holo-projection that hovered over it. A map. "He hasn't come out. _You're_ going inside to retrieve him. Memorize this. It might save your life."

"I..." Hot Rod balked, partly because that sounded a lot like studying. "What?!"

"You're a Prime, aren't you?" Kaon snapped the map closed and turned to a panel near the outermost ring of glyphs and began typing. "The energy inside shouldn't affect you as adversely as it would us 'mere mortals'. Oh, and also? You're expendable."

"I'm not... not a Prime," Hot Rod said, his chest felt tight, like his spark was contracting. "I'm not anything, just Meltdown's whore, that's what I was sparked for. So I guess the part about being expendable is true."

Kaon turned to Vos, who nodded again. The rifle was still gripping Hot Rod's elbow, fingers digging into the blistered and scratched red plating. It seemed to be good enough for Kaon, who turned back to the keypad and punched in a final sequence.

"I thought you said it wouldn't open without Tarn," Hot Rod protested.

"I can simulate his spark signature from this side," Kaon's voice was cool. "If you want to come back out, you had better fragging have Tarn with you."

"You're off your goddamn processor," Hot Rod said.

"You're the Prime," Kaon said, "and as a Cybertronian, Tarn is one of your people, isn't he?"

The seams irised open, and both Vos and Kaon cringed and flinched, like someone had thrown them into cold water or exposed them to acid. Hot Rod tried to figure out what was wrong with them, because he didn't feel anything that went beyond a light chill. Kaon recovered first, or perhaps he was just better at hiding his discomfort, and he gestured to the entryway. "Isn't that what you Primes are _supposed_ to do, serve the people of Cybertron?"

"I'm not--"

"He is," said Vos, and Hot Rod noticed that he nodded and addressed Kaon with a hand sign. It seemed that Tarn's second didn't speak the Primal Dialect. "I was there, I saw his spark."

"Get going," Kaon sneered, pointing and spitting the words out like they were insulting, obscene. " _Lord Prime_."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanons about Vos:
> 
> me: *is tiny*  
> me: (ง •̀_•́)ง

Hot Rod woke up in his cell, where Meltdown kept him when he wasn't being used.

It was dark, but there was a dim red-orange glow that permeated everything. It was emanating from his biolights, which--

Wait. Biolights? Since when had he had biolights?

Hot Rod sat up, running his hands over his frame, half cautious and half curious. It looked different. It _felt_ different. Lighter, stronger, thrumming with a purpose he didn't think he fully understood. There were parts of himself that were alien, and he didn't recognize them. It made him feel like a stranger in his own frame. The old burns and dents were still there, the red smear of his Autobrand in the middle of them. The pain he'd been in had faded to a dull ache, and his energy levels were in the high nineties.

What had happened? What had Meltdown done to him? Had someone fueled him while he'd been offline? How long had he been unconscious?

Hesitantly, he swung his feet down from the narrow berth and rested them on the floor. He could put weight on them. The beating hadn't damaged him badly enough to break his bearing struts, and the cell was too small to transform in, but he felt like his t-cog had realigned. He wondered if he could transform at all. A quick self-diagnostic confirmed that he couldn't, a message on his HUD informed him that he had never scanned a vehicle mode.

 _Unicron's broadside_ , he thought, _what the hell_ \--

The sound of heavy footsteps made him jerk, and he felt his valve ache and clench in protest.

Whatever had happened hadn't fixed _that_.

The door hissed open, and the cell flooded with light. Before he could react, there were hands on him, dragging him out. Hot Rod didn't fight back, but it didn't stop a fist from connecting with his face, and a pair of guards forced him to his knees.

He looked up, and Meltdown loomed over him. The tank's panels were closed, but Hot Rod could see the hurried, sloppy welds on the Decepticon's intakes.

"Hiya, Meltdown." Hot Rod said, unable to keep the words from coming out of his vocalizer. Despite himself, he grinned. "How's the spike feeling?"

Meltdown backhanded him so hard Hot Rod felt his shoulder protest in the guard's grip. The tank reached down and gripped him by the intake. "You're going to find out tonight, you little glitch, and once I'm done with you, I'm going to let my officers use you. If you're still alive after that, I'm going to chain you up in the commons and let every goddamn Decepticon on this ship have a go at your valve."

"Sounds like a good time," Hot Rod said, "but you could at least buy me a drink first."

Meltdown backhanded him again, and Hot Rod couldn't help but be amused at his lack of creativity, even as his helm was knocked to one side and his shoulder joints sang out with pain. He tasted energon, and he spat it out.

They hauled him up and dragged him, and despite any earlier assessments that he was stronger, each of the guards was at least twice his mass. Hot Rod was dwarfed between them, he couldn't have kept pace even if they felt inclined to allow it. One of them was some kind of transport flier, and Hot Rod barely came up to his waist.

Well, he guessed he couldn't blame Meltdown for not wanting to take any chances.

Once stabbed in the spike, twice shy.

That was the saying, wasn't it?

They mechhandled him into Meltdown's quarters and the general pointed at the table in the sitting area. "Bend him over it," Meltdown said, dismissive.

Hot Rod grunted as his chassis hit it, none too gently. One of the guards hovering over him bent his arms behind him and stasis-cuffed them. His wrenched shoulders and the dents on his wrists where Meltdown had chained him to a berth went blissfully numb. The other guard held the back of his helm down so tightly his hand might as well have been welded to Hot Rod's head.

"Hey," Hot Rod called out, "Meltdown, what's the matter? All of a sudden, you need help from your goons to rape me? You scared?"

Meltdown came back into his line of sight, and Hot Rod wished his frame hadn't shuddered and flinched involuntarily at the sight of him. The Decepticon gazed down at him, all cruelty and loathing. He looked back up at his guards. "Rip off his modesty panels, he's not going to need them anymore."

Hot Rod tried to close his legs and pull away, but the two guards were stronger, and between them they jerked his legs open. He felt helpless, vulnerable, exposed.

"He's weirdly strong for being so fragging tiny," one of them said. "Thought you said you were starving him, Captain."

"Just get on with it," Meltdown snapped.

Hot Rod braced himself and squeezed his optics shut as he felt claws slide into the seam of his valve panel. He wasn't going to scream, he wouldn't give Meltdown the satisfaction. Not this time.

Someone cleared their vocalizer, and the sound echoed everywhere, filling the room like a drop of black paint that had fallen into clear water. Instinctively, Hot Rod looked around for the source of the voice, though there was a limit to how far he could crane his neck. Meltdown and the guards did too, and the claws lifted away his panel, thank Primus.

Sitting near the observation window, in Meltdown's own chair was a mech that Hot Rod had seen many times - if only in Decepticon propaganda leaflets and holovids.

He recognized Tarn instantly, the only thing that was even remotely surprising was that Megatron's executioner was just as impressive-looking in the alloy as he was on film. Hot Rod had always assumed there was digital trickery involved.

Tarn had been sitting, legs crossed, reading from a dataslate. As he turned the chair to face the scene playing out in front of him, he seemed perfectly at ease. There was an elegant, ornate rifle sitting across his lap, and Tarn stroked it with one clawed hand, as though it were a cherished pet.

Tarn's mask made him expressionless, but his optics were curious. He tilted his helm towards the scene. "Am I... interrupting something?" his voice was smooth and rich, like dark water that hid dangerous currents.

Meltdown gaped at him, and the guards who had been holding Hot Rod let him go so quickly it seemed as though they had touched something superheated.

"Oh, no," Tarn set the rifle to one side on the desk and gripped the arms of the chair, pushing himself up. He was a tank, just like Meltdown, but he carried his weight with a flowing, languid grace that would have been more suited to a dancer. "Don't stop on my account. I can wait."

Hot Rod hadn't realized he had pulled away from the table and started backing up until his spoiler wings hit the wall. He folded them down, pressing them against his frame in submission. Not that he was fooling anyone, all of Meltdown's abuses hadn't erased his paint job, and he stood out boldly between the muted colors of the Decepticons surrounding him.

"Tarn," said Meltdown, who seemed like he had recovered from the shock of finding the DJD commander waiting in his rooms, and was perhaps emboldened by the fact that Tarn was outnumbered. "Nice to see you've come out of hiding. Have you decided to make some sort of contribution to the Cause? Because I can have this Autobot's valve until he offlines from it if that's what I want, it's not--"

The sound of a t-cog engaging echoed through the room as the rifle transformed and jumped off the desk. Hot Rod didn't recognize the mech, but he'd read in one of Jazz's old intelligence files the DJD went through members with some regularity. Only Tarn and Kaon were part of the old guard.

"You think you can lecture _Tarn_ about what you can and can't do, you ignorant slagger," the rifle stalked forward, one hand balled into a fist, pointing with the other. "I'm going to rip off your fragging--"

Tarn caught the rifle by one arm and tugged him back.

"Vos," Tarn purred, petting the rifle's back, and Hot Rod felt that purr coil over his frame and settle between his legs. He shifted uncomfortably. "It's alright, let me explain it to him. He doesn't know."

Meltdown made a face. "What's wrong with your rifle? Does he have a processor glitch or something? Why is his voice all fragged up?"

Hot Rod blinked. What? There was nothing wrong with Vos' voice. To him, the rifle sounded perfectly normal, if a little screamy.

Tarn's optics narrowed as he turned back to Meltdown. "Vos only speaks the Primal Dialect, but we didn't come here to discuss his language uploads. We came here to discuss _your_ future, Meltdown."

What? Hot Rod knew he didn't speak the Primal Dialect either - not beyond a medical term or two that Ratchet had taught him in an age past, so what the hell was Meltdown's malfunction?

Tarn looked between the two guards. "I'm... trying to figure out why you two are still here."

He didn't have to say it twice, they all but fled the room. It seemed insane to Hot Rod. Meltdown and his crewmates had the advantage of numbers, and while Tarn would have dwarfed the captive racer, Meltdown and his guards were all bigger than the DJD commander. When the two Decepticons passed him, Hot Rod decided he'd follow them, after all, Tarn hadn't yet acknowledged--

"Not you, Autobot," Tarn said, and Hot Rod stopped, as though his feet had been welded to the floor. "You stay right where you are. Turn around. Face me. What's your name?"

Hot Rod wondered if there was anything to be gained by resisting. Having his panels torn out suddenly seemed tame compared to what the DJD would do to him.

"Hot Rod," he said, as he turned, and his voice felt tinny and weak compared to Tarn's.

Tarn glanced at Meltdown. "May I?"

"As if you weren't going to anyways," Meltdown growled, "but help yourself."

Tarn strode across the room, and from behind him, Vos pointed at his optics, and then at Meltdown. If the situation had been different, Hot Rod might have laughed at the absurdity. Vos was clearly a minibot, by weight if not by height. What was he even going to _do_? Get into a fistfight with Meltdown?

"He's such a curiosity," Tarn purred, he was close enough to touch, and his fields felt like being plunged into cold water. Hot Rod denied a request from his frame to shutter his vents, that wouldn't help. "I haven't seen an Autobot in centuries. I assumed they were extinct."

Tarn was far bigger than he was, and Hot Rod just barely reached the center of his chest. He was eye-level with the Decepticon brand that the executioner wore over the seam of his spark chamber. To try and distract himself, Hot Rod looked at the tank's treads, the elaborate patterns there. When Tarn's hands came to rest on his hips and drew him away from the wall, he squeezed his optics shut.

"You're trembling, Autobot." Tarn drew him a little closer, and one clawed hand came up to caress Hot Rod's smeared Autobrand, which rested in the same spot as Tarn's own badge. "It's alright. I'll make this quick, and if you obey, painless."

Tarn's clawed thumb stroked over Hot Rod's chest seam, it was the closest thing to a gentle touch the captive Autobot could remember, and it made him squirm. "Did Meltdown ever take you here?"

His vocalizer wouldn't engage, but there was no choice but to answer. Tarn's voice was making him hot behind his panels, and Hot Rod could feel a light sting as lubricants tricked over the lining of his abused valve. He was disgusted with himself, his own frame was a traitor. Hot Rod shook his head. It was the only mercy Meltdown had ever shown him.

"Good," Tarn said, clearly pleased. He tapped the seam with one claw. "Very good. Open for me."

No. _No_. Not his spark. Primus, not that. Hot Rod's plating crawled, and it felt like scraplets were burrowing into him. He kept his chestplates closed, and confirmed the lock was engaged.

"Hot Rod," Tarn said, his other hand coming around to the small of the trembling Autobot's back. He hooked one of his claws into the seam and gave it the gentlest tug, so painless that Hot Rod's frame dared to interpret it as foreplay. "I'm... not so crude as to rip these off, but if you don't open up, I'll have to bring Helex up here to melt your locks off. Neither of us want that, do we?"

"Wait--" Meltdown began, but cut himself short when Tarn half-turned to face him. Tarn's hand didn't move from the seam of Hot Rod's spark chamber, and now his thumb stroked it, maddeningly. It was equal parts terrifying and arousing, but Hot Rod guessed that was exactly what the DJD leader was going for.

"What is it, Meltdown?" Tarn's voice was curious, but Hot Rod sensed that he somehow already _knew_ what had happened. About the strange voice and the light and the reconfiguration. "Is there something in there you don't want me to see?"

Meltdown squared his shoulders and glared. "Look if you want, but don't break him."

"Quite the show of concern for someone who was going to..." Tarn paused for effect, as though he were accessing a deep memory file. "'Chain him up in the commons and let every Decepticon on the ship have a go at his valve'?"

Meltdown made a noise of annoyance, but had no answer to that. Like a sparkling who didn't care about his toys until his Caretaker threatened to take them away.

"Now," Tarn leaned into him, his mask scraping against Hot Rod's audial, and the Autobot had to deny a request to open his panels. "Open for me, Autobot. I want to see the prize I came here for."

Hot Rod muted his vocalizer rather than release the whimper, and sent the command to his chestplates to unlock. The second the barely audible click happened, Tarn hooked his claws into the seam and pulled the plates apart.

Even Hot Rod was surprised.

The light was dazzling, a red-gold fire that filled the entire room and washed out all the other colors into shades of orange-yellow. Tarn, who was closest, had to shield his optics, and Vos tilted his head, staring with wonder he didn't bother to conceal. Meltdown, who had seen it before, tried to maintain a neutral expression and mostly failed. Even he looked impressed.

Apparently satisfied, Tarn slid the plates closed. "Lock up," he ordered.

Hot Rod did it, instantly. The room still looked off somehow, the padding on the berth and couch looked bleached, as though it had been left out in the sun. Even Tarn's mask looked slightly discolored, the paint faded and cracking. None of it gave him comfort. He he done that? Had his _spark_ done that?

Primus, what if it exploded or something? What the hell was wrong with him?

"Vos," said Tarn. "Take the Autobot to the Tyranny and secure him. Don't allow anyone to touch him until I get there."

"Hey!" Meltdown glowered at Tarn. "That Autobot is mine, and his spark is too."

"That's," Tarn sighed, "Wildly incorrect."

On the other side of the room, Vos flailed. "You are goddamn right it's incorrect, you slaghead! I bet you can't tell your own aft from a hole in the--"

Meltdown glanced over at Vos, and Tarn gestured to his partner to be quiet. Vos did, but he kicked the side of Meltdown's desk, vibrating and rattling his internal chambers in annoyance.

"I captured him." Meltdown said. "Thought Megatron was pretty clear about the next part."

"Ah," Tarn said, and he released Hot Rod, who backed away from him until he hit the wall again. "That. Yes, he was, wasn't he? You capture a living Autobot, and you get first rights to their frame. I always did find the whole thing distasteful, but it was somewhat ingenious, since our race is so few in number. It encouraged his officers to keep the Autobots alive."

Meltdown glowered at Tarn, and Hot Rod wondered if his captor had a death wish.

"--but," Tarn continued, holding up one clawed finger, as though he were a teacher chastising a misbehaving student, "there _is_ the next part. Which is that all Autobot captives are to be remitted to Megatron, who will ultimately decide their fate."

"Well, when I see Megatron," Meltdown sneered, "I'll let him have his turn."

Tarn sighed, and rubbed the false finial on his mask. "In the light of our Master's... regrettable and extended absence, I have assumed the burden of command."

Meltdown squinted. "So, then, to put it another way--"

Vos cackled.

"Do not," said Tarn, and the hint of warning in his voice was accompanied by a glance towards Vos, "put it another way. It's unbearably cliché."

"You're saying the Autobot belongs to you."

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Tarn gestured. "And so do you. So does your ship. So do you officers and your crew. Gather your things. Your second will assume command of the Harbinger, and bring it to join my Warfleet. You will come to the Tyranny immediately, and join the officer cadre there. I'm willing to... overlook your previous infractions. I need soldiers."

As Vos crossed the room towards him, for a brief moment, Hot Rod actually considered begging to be left with Meltdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To put it another way, "Megatron has fallen! I, Tarn, now lead the Decepticons!"


	8. Chapter 8

It was dark in the Choir Room.

It was dark and Hot Rod hadn't memorized Kaon's map.

When he had passed through the iris and into the main hall of the Choir Room, something has brushed against his frame. At first, Hot Rod had assumed it was some kind of psychic emanation, but now that he looked down at himself he saw that it was steelsilk veils.

Of course it was, and Hot Rod reminded himself that they weren't real. He'd stopped wearing his a long time ago, and these were just an illusion. It was the damned room trying to freak him out.

According to Kaon, 'Choir Room' was a misnomer, and the whole setup was an array of hallways, arches, and chambers a few hundred feet deep.

Logically, Tarn couldn't be all that far away, and while the atmosphere inside felt heavy and strange, Hot Rod couldn't see it burning out his spark. His HUD wasn't pinging him with warnings, but he decided that like the veils, that could be part of the trick. It would be best to find Tarn and get the frag out of here. This was not a good place.

Hot Rod found himself completely unsurprised that the DJD had a reality-warping nightmare room, and equally unsurprised that they had thrown him inside at the earliest available opportunity.

Putting his hand on one wall, he started walking.

In the distance, he heard voices. Not Tarn's, because while Hot Rod had only heard the DJD commander speak a few times, he was confident he would never forget it. These were whispers, hovering on the edge of consciousness.

_You were sparked for this. Positive energy fields are very good for them. If you already have all these warriors, then you don't need us! Let us go! Dying wouldn't be so bad, would it? Since you can't play nicely with this, I'm going to take it away. You are being deceived._

The voices were crawling and uncomfortable, but they weren't real, and Hot Rod kept walking.

In time, he wondered if he was going in circles, but he hadn't taken his hand off the wall and he hadn't come back around to the iris, so it stood to reason he was getting somewhere, and his skirts brushed the ground as he walked. The broken strut in his chest and his crumpled spoiler wing hurt, but at least the journey gave him time to think.

Primarily, he thought about whether he should kill himself. It wasn't as if his situation had improved, and arguably, it had worsened. While Vos seemed curious and even sympathetic, Kaon was making no attempt to his conceal his... Hot Rod wasn't sure what it was. Jealousy? Loathing? And the two bruisers didn't seem to care about him either way, except as a curiosity.

Tarn was--

Well, Hot Rod already knew what it meant when a powerful mech looked at him the way Tarn did.

If he had the spark to go through with it, now was the time. Assuming Tarn would die in the Choir Room, Hot Rod figured he could do a lot worse than taking the leader of the DJD out with him, but the thought of it made the scar of his Autobrand burn and itch. Even _Tarn_ didn't deserve to be left here, to offline alone in the dark, and if he could help, he should. Shouldn't he? Otherwise he'd be letting Meltdown burn the Autobrand out of his spirit, instead of just off frame.

 _Fragging Meltdown_.

If nothing else, Tarn had murdered Meltdown. Hot Rod decided he owed him that. Even if it somehow felt petty and sour to be glad his former master was dead.

The dark thoughts rattled him and while he was distracted, something tangled around his feet and he tripped.

Hot Rod hit the ground hard, scraping his chin, the ventiations knocked out of him. Pain laced through his frame, and the broken strut in his chest felt like someone had jabbed a blade between his plating. As he pushed himself up, he half expected the DJD to pop out of the shadows to torment him. Looking back, he was almost grateful to find that the hallway behind him was empty, save shadows.

He couldn't see the iris anymore, and that could only be a bad thing. He didn't feel like he had gone very far. It shouldn't have vanished.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, glancing down to see what had tripped him and discovering that it was a chain.

Hot Rod aimed a kick at it and it rattled. Huh.

Maybe that was real. It seemed pretty likely that the DJD owned a whole bunch of fragged up restraints. Sooner or later. he was probably going to get the chance to try them out.

The chain, laying in coils, looked like its terminus was deeper inside, and for lack of a better idea, Hot Rod decided to follow it. Reaching out, he laid his hand on the wall again and resumed walking.

Primus! What was Tarn even _doing_ in here? Did he like playing in the dark?

Another chain overlaid the one that tripped him, and another over that, until there were was a mass of them on the floor that he had to pick his way through. Tarn knelt at the epicenter of the knot of chains, held fast, his plating covered in a thin layer of frost. Decepticon nightmares apparently didn't tilt towards steelsilk veils.

Tarn's mask was off, laying askance on the floor, and Hot Rod didn't know if the other mech had removed it or if it had somehow come loose.

Curiosity burned through him, and Hot Rod wondered if it wouldn't be wrong to steal a quick glance. This was the mech who was going to be taking him to berth every night, it was only natural to want to see his face. On the other hand, Tarn had been gentle with him so far, and if he wanted to survive, making the commander of the DJD angry with him couldn't be good for his chances.

In the end, he didn't do it.

Kneeling, he retrieved the mask and set in Tarn's hands without looking at him.

"Tarn," Hot Rod said, reaching out to touch the tank's treads. Where he laid his hand, the frost melted, crawling away from his touch as though it were terrified of it. He didn't think much of it. When he was excited or scared, Hot Rod ran, well, hot. "Kaon sent me to find you. We have to go. I think this is a bad place."

 _And if you can't walk_ , he thought, _I'm not going to be able to carry you_.

Tarn didn't respond, and the mask lay in his hands, ignored. Hot Rod had to fight down the urge to look at his face.

"Okay, then." Hot Rod lowered himself down to the floor, an act more difficult than it sounded because of the overlaid coils of chains. It was impossible to sit comfortably, but at this point, he was used to discomfort. "You're clearly pretty busy with your weird psychic nightmare room. I'll just sit here with you and wait."

He stole a glance at Tarn's hands. Nothing.

 _Frag_ , thought Hot Rod. He was terrible at waiting and not great with temptation either.

"It's good to see that Vos is okay," Hot Rod ventured. "Y'know, after what Meltdown did to him. I think he's worried about you. We could go and check on him."

More nothing.

"I wanted to--"

"You... think very loudly, Autobot." Tarn's voice was slow and labored, but not notably different without his mask on. So the things he did with it weren't some strange mod or new tech, they were him. Hot Rod heard the hum of partial transformation as Tarn raised one hand, the chains straining, and attached the mask to his face. Hot Rod had lost his chance. He glanced around. "Psychically speaking, this _is_ a bad place. It's where they kept me."

"Kept you?"

"When I was being used." Tarn didn't elaborate, and though it clearly took effort, he rose, the chains sloughing off. "Get up, it's been too long."

Hot Rod raised an optical ridge. "It's been twenty minutes, tops."

"As I said." Tarn reached down and took him by the arm, hauling him up. To Hot Rod, the tank seemed unsteady, but determined not to let it show. "Too long."

Hot Rod feared Tarn might fall over, and if he did, he wouldn't be able to pick the Decepticon up. "We should hold hands."

"We should not 'hold hands', Autobot."

"I get scared," Hot Rod lied, to spare Tarn's pride.

Tarn was watching him, evaluating, and Hot Rod wondered if the DJD commander was reading his processor. What did it even feel like? Was it painful? Would he even notice? Finally, Tarn peeled his optics away from his captive's steelsilk veils and held out one arm. Hot Rod took it, steadying him.

"Okay," said Hot Rod, glancing up and down the corridors and realizing he'd gotten turned around, and that his internal navigation systems were no help. "Let's go. Let's find the way out."


	9. Chapter 9

Tarn did not like Meltdown.

He did not like Meltdown one bit.

That scenario usually proved fatal for whatever Decepticon had managed to so egregiously catch Tarn's attention, but he needed ships and he needed soldiers and Meltdown's record of victories during the Great War spoke for itself.

...but it didn't make the mech any less unpleasant.

Perhaps Meltdown would object to the thought of a beastformer commanding their armies and Deathsaurus would eat him. Tarn suppressed a chuckle at the thought of it.

The Autobot walked just behind them, with Vos, who was helping to steady him and providing Tarn with a constant barrage of updates over the comm.

[Tarn,] said Vos. Even as automated text, Vos' calligraphy was an atrocious scrawl. Tarn blamed himself. His duties with the Fleet had consumed so much of his free time, he'd been neglecting Vos' education. [Tarn, I don't like him.]

[I don't like him either,] Tarn said, making a mental note to set aside some time for the rifle.

Even without turning around, Tarn felt like he could see Vos' optics lightning up in anticipation. [Can we kill him?]

[No.]

Vos expressed annoyance in his typical way, his frame shaking and his internal chambers clicking and snapping. [... but I brought the knives.]

[Don't get worked up until you have an episode, Vos. Just keep your optics on my prize.]

Vos made an unintelligible noise and Tarn caught Meltdown watching them curiously. The other tank said nothing, but it was clear he knew they were talking on the comm, Decepticons were nothing if not alert for treachery. For Hot Rod's part, the Autobot kept his head down, his fields pulled down to nil and his wings folded against his back in submission. Obedient and mostly silent was how Tarn wanted him, even if he would have preferred that Meltdown had cultivated it through a different... approach. The Autobot seemed fragile, and Tarn couldn't risk breaking him.

Assuming Meltdown hadn't already accomplished that. The racer seemed different than the way he was described in the intelligence file Kaon had sent to his commander. Hot Rod hadn't been important enough to the Autobot Cause that he had ever drawn the personal attention of Decepticon spies or assassins, but there were still a few records of him. Megatron was nothing if not thorough, and those records tended to use words like _reckless_ , _daring_ , or _over-confident_.

Most notably, he'd gathered a great deal of Decepticon attention after he'd stolen the Victorious, an Autobot vessel that had been captured during one of the raids that had destroyed the last Autobot starports. With the Ark and the Nemesis seemingly destroyed, the Decepticons had turned on those Autobots stranded on the planet, the vast majority of whom were not flight-capable.

In a feint that, well, Tarn would have described as _reckless_ and _daring_ , Hot Rod had gathered a group of disparate Autobots and civilians to him and launched on an attack on the Victorious while most of the Decepticons were out picking through the crash sites. The victory had been decisive, and Hot Rod and his followers had fled the planet in the stolen ship. They'd managed to remain at large, even after the Dhar'vhok had appeared, but eventually they had run afoul of Meltdown.

The firebeather had shot the Victorious down over Aerys Colony and dragged the survivors out of the wreckage to keep as prizes. He'd even succeeded at it for a time, though it seemed that Hot Rod had engineered some sort of escape attempt, one that had nearly scuttled the Harbinger in the process. The other Autobots, nearly forty of them, had gotten away, though they'd left him behind. Tarn was curious about the specifics, but Kaon had told him in no uncertain terms that it would take time to review the Harbinger's memory cores.

Either way, it was very poor form for Autobots, and Tarn wondered what had become of them. His best guess was 'nothing good'.

"How many Decepticons are on the Harbinger?" Tarn asked, to draw Meltdown's attention to something else.

"I don't know," Meltdown said, flippant. "Two-hundred, maybe?"

[Tarn,] said Vos, [just let me kill him.]

Vos just wanted a reaction, and Tarn didn't give him the satisfaction of turning around, despite how Meltdown's answer incensed him. Tarn knew every mech on his Warfleet. Their designations, their war records, their alt-modes. How could Meltdown be so careless as to not even know who was on his ship? Tarn's tolerance for the mech ticked down another notch, and he wondered what Megatron had seen in him.

"I'd like to do a full review of the Harbinger," Tarn said, reining in his emotions. "When there's time."

Meltdown raised an optic ridge. "That sounds like deskwork. Don't you have someone to do that for you?"

"No," said Tarn. "I have other mechs who command my Warfleet. The Decepticon Justice Division are a special operations unit, not generals."

"Hn." Meltdown raised an optic ridge. "Gonna tell me who they are?"

"Deathsaurus," Tarn said, "and Sundiver, the Kaian Wardancer."

Tarn wondered if Meltdown had taken the admission as a sign of weakness. Decepticons were warriors, after all, not glyph-pushers. An Empire would rise on fall on the strength of its bureaucracy, but Tarn doubted the general cared.

For his part, Tarn didn't care either. If Meltdown was trying to size him up and thought he could try something, all he would get was a very harsh lesson in how paper-thin Tarn's airs of sophistication and genteel manners really were.

Meltdown made a noise of derision. "So an animal," he said, "and a mech who's no better than one. I can see why you needed me."

"Be careful what you say about the Kaians," Tarn said, feeling annoyance prickle over him again. "They're Decepticon allies, and they'll be treated with the proper respect. There are a great number of them with the fleet."

As if to drive the point home, Vos texted him a picture of a crudely drawn spike with the glyphs for Meltdown's designation stamped over it.

[Vos, stop that.]

[Fine,] Vos said, and even as bare text, Tarn sensed the undertone of an amused cackle. [I'll just talk to the Autobot. _He_ can be my new best friend.]

[Somehow I doubt that.] After all, it wasn't as if--

[He speaks the Primal Dialect.] Vos cut off Tarn's train of thought. [He told me my voice didn't sound stupid.]

Now Tarn _did_ turn around, glancing back at Hot Rod, who hadn't changed in either appearance or demeanor. It usually wasn't that hard to tell when mechs were speaking on the comm, it showed on their faces or in their fields, but with his auras drawn in so sharply and his wings folded back, the Autobot had no tell.

...and he was fluent in the Primal Dialect, curious.

That was something that hadn't been in the Decepticon files on Hot Rod, but perhaps it was new. Either way, he would have to update them.

[Your voice doesn't sound stupid,] Tarn answered, turning back to Meltdown and continuing towards the bridge. [What else is he saying?]

[He's trying to get me to say if we captured the Autobots who escaped from Meltdown before.]

[...and what are you telling him?] Not that Tarn was worried that Vos would give anything pertinent up, but the rifle was always starved for either conversation or attention and he tended to quickly become enthralled with anyone who understood him. Tarn didn't want Vos getting attached to the Autobot.

[I'm being deliberately evasive, but I don't think it matters. He's already got you sussed out. Not just a pretty set of faceplates. I see why you like him.]

[I don't 'like him', Vos. He's a means to an end.] Tarn paused, considering. [What makes you say that?]

[He thinks if you had another Autobot to use as a bargaining chip, you wouldn't have needed to threaten him with Helex.] Thankfully, Vos didn't press the comment about 'liking' the Autobot, one way or another.

As they passed onto the bridge, Tarn allowed his measure of respect for the Autobot to increase, just the tiniest bit. He was even the slightest bit pleased. If Hot Rod was trying to make good with the captor who seemed the most sympathetic to his plight, maybe he wasn't as broken as the DJD commander had feared.

[Too bad we _don't_ have them,] Vos offered. [They'll practically beg you to do whatever you want to them if you threaten another Autobot.]

[One is enough,] Tarn answered. [Especially since it's this one.]

[He's scared.]

[You don't say.]

[He thinks you want to take his spark.]

Tarn, of course, _did_ want the Autobot's spark. The touch of the Void lingered on him now, even when he wasn't Journeying, and he couldn't recall the last time he'd been warm. Tarn wanted to submerge his own silver-green spark in that red radiance, let it drive the chill out of him and wash him clean as he lost himself in the light.

Forced sparkmerges were, however, spectacularly traumatic. Even to the aggressor, and he doubted the Autobot would ever come willingly. Tarn would have to settle for keeping him close, perhaps indulging in the Autobot's frame from time to time, and save even _looking_ at the captive's spark for special occasions. Sacrifices had to be made, especially for the Cause.

[Tell him I don't,] Tarn lied, the doors of the bridge hissing closed behind them.


	10. Chapter 10

Hot Rod had assumed the DJD would have an evil medic working for them. Another torturer, or an organ thief, or some mech who was just plain off his processor. It just made sense.

What he did not expect was an adorable, foul-mouthed minibot. One who appeared to have actual credentials, despite her berthside manner.

Her name was Nickel.

"Which one of you dumbafts _stepped_ on him?!" Nickel flailed from behind him, where she was trying to realign his spoiler-wing, presumably failing, and swearing elaborately. "Fess up! And you, Autobot. Hold still or so help me Solus, I'll clamp you down!"

Hot Rod did his best to comply, she seemed like she'd do it.

"Maybe," said Kaon, "you could take a look at Tarn--"

"He's not dying," Nickel said, brusquely. "But you're going to be if you don't _stop trying to tell me how to run my medbay_! And who did this to his spoiler?!"

"Kaon was the one who dropped him," the mech Hot Rod recognized as Helex said, sounding shockingly contrite. "But Tess stepped on him."

"You're a fragging traitor, Hel." The other giant of a mech shoved Helex. "We should put _you_ on the goddamn List."

"When your frame needs as much maintenance as mine, you can piss off your medics all you want--"

"Yeah, maybe you should stop _eating guns_ , spikesucker--"

"Maybe guns are fragging delicious--"

Nickel waved a welder at all three them, and Hot Rod could feel hot fury venting out of her energy field in waves. "Dropping mechs out of that cell _isn't funny_!"

"Nickel," said Tesarus. "Come on, you gotta admit, it's a little bit funny. You should see the looks on their faces when--"

"Leave my medbay right now!" She flailed again. "Immediately!"

Helex shrugged and turned to go, while Kaon remained where he was at the window of the isolation room, as though he were welded to the spot. Tesarus went to him, touching his back lightly and leaning down over him. Hot Rod heard them speaking quietly, but it seemed like the bigger mech eventually managed to coax Kaon into leaving, because Kaon took his arm and allowed Tesarus to guide him out.

"Are they an item?" Hot Rod asked, when they were gone.

"No," said Nickel, giving him a sour look. "But Tess was with him when it happened, and he blames himself."

Hot Rod raised an optical ridge. "When _what_ happened?"

Nickel pointed at her optics, but didn't elaborate further as she went back to working. "It was before my time, but late enough in the war that full optical rebuilds were impossible. It was difficult enough to get them on Cybertron, from what I hear."

"Yeah, treatment like that was only for high-castes, and even then--" Hot Rod winced as he felt something pinch, then vented with relief as his spoiler slid back into alignment.

"Good?" Nickel asked.

"Much better," Hot Rod said, and found it was true. It still hurt, but the sharp pain had blunted into a dull ache. Bearable, he guessed, and he glanced towards the isolation room. Tarn was in there, still and dark, his biolights flickering dully, his arms folded across his chest - not unlike a corpse. "Hey, is Tarn alright?"

Nickel didn't look up. "No."

"You just told Kaon he wasn't dying."

"You didn't _ask_ if he was dying."

"So then," Hot Rod frowned, "he's sick?"

"Autobot, you don't even _know_." Nickel rolled around to his other side and gripped the other spoiler, testing the range of motion. "Nine days in the Choir Room is too much, even for him."

Hot Rod blinked. _Nine days_? Tarn must have screwed up his chronometer even more than he thought, that or the damned room did. He folded his arms around himself and let Nickel work. With the DJD gone, she performed her task mostly in silence, occasionally swearing under her breath. While he waited, he wondered what would happen to him once Tarn woke up. Somehow, he doubted the DJD would be grateful. Kaon hadn't looked pleased when they had emerged from the iris, with Hot Rod at Tarn's side, supporting him. Tarn hadn't been much help in calling off his team either: the moment they'd taken the first step over the threshold, he'd collapsed. Hot Rod supposed he should count his blessings, and just be grateful they'd dragged him along to the medbay.

Nickel interruped his thoughts. "I need to plug into you," she said, tapping the medical panel on his arm. "To do a full frame scan."

Hot Rod stared at her, and after a long silence she added, "Don't be a protoform. It's not invasive."

Of course it wasn't, and he knew that well enough, he'd just had enough of being touched by Decepticons. There was nothing to be gained by resisting, and he sensed the explanation was something like a peace offering. _Inroads_ , he thought, triggering the panel open. _She seems sympathetic_.

Nickel nodded to him and spooled out a cable from her arm to plug into his ports, and Hot Rod caught the greenish blink of a medical scan in her optics.

"Why does the Choir Room hurt Tarn, but not me?" Hot Rod asked, curious.

"Because you're a Prime and he's not." Nickel unplugged the cable and slid it back into her own medical panel. "It's one of the fringe benefits."

"How can you be so sure? Can you test for that, like, medically?"

Nickel gave him a look so acidic that Hot Rod was sure she normally used it for stripping paint. "Don't be stupid. Of course I can."

"I really don't think--"

She snorted, her tone derisive. "What? Did you fragging sleep through your Second Ignition? I've just heard stories, but somehow I don't think that's possible."

Hot Rod flinched, and Nickel made a noise of annoyance as he pulled his spoiler-wings in and one of them snapped against her hand. All he could think of was Meltdown looming over him, of being on his knees, the rough feel of the Decepticon's hands on his frame, of Meltdown's spike pushing down his intake.

Meltdown's energon on his hands, the taste of the tank's transfluid.

They could put that all up on the wall of the Primal Basilica, right next to Sentinel stopping the Voidquake and Optimus resurrecting the dead. Then everyone could see what he'd been sparked for.

He hadn't even realized he'd been crying until Nickel touched his arm and he nearly jumped off the medical slab. His frame felt hot, and his cooling fans were roaring in his audials.

"That's--" She frowned at him. "Hot Rod, that's enough for now. You're not going to offline, and your wing will be fine in a day or two."

Primus fragging forfend. Then Tarn wouldn't be able to use him, and they couldn't have that. What else was he good for?

"I'll... tell Tarn you need to be alone for a while, to rest."

Hot Rod nodded to her, mutely. He didn't trust his vocalizer. Nickel touched her audial, and to try and calm down Hot Rod watched the points of her antennas as she had a brief conversation. Despite the fact that she'd thrown them out, Helex and Tesarus must have been waiting just outside the door, because they stepped back inside almost instantly. Hot Rod guessed they'd been waiting around in case he'd tried something or threatened their minibot, and he was almost grateful when they dragged him out and sealed him up in the darkness of the cell.


	11. Chapter 11

[You know,] said Vos, amicably, [the beauty of no one being able to understand you is that you can say whatever you want. Rhombus. Granular. Cobalt.]

Hot Rod blinked.

[Vehicular mechslaughter,] Vos went on, tapping one hand into the other as he walked. His frame was vibrating, and his chambers clicked and rattled. [Which is what you're going to witness in about ten minutes, when Tarn finally loses his patience with Meltdown talking slag. And it probably won't make you feel any better, but I'm going to cut Meltdown's spike off and make him goddamn eat it.]

For whatever reason, Vos had a channel open and was happily chatting away with him. The act was undoubtedly a serious breach of protocol, because Hot Rod was reasonably certain he wasn't supposed to have access to the DJD's private communications channels, and yet, he did. He wasn't sure if he should respond to the open channel (which would technically be polite) or wait it out and see if Vos gave up anything useful.

Still, there might be another way to get information, and Hot Rod pried his optics off the biolights on Tarn's back and turned to Vos.

[Rhombuses are neat,] Hot Rod said, [but then again, I like all basic shapes.]

Vos blinked at him, then squinted.

[I can understand you just fine, and I don't think your voice sounds fragged up.] Hot Rod tried to smile down at him, but couldn't manage it.

[I didn't know you spoke the Primal Dialect?] Vos looked curious now, even eager.

[I didn't either.] Hot Rod shrugged, or what passed for one with his arms chained behind his back. [But I understand you. You don't speak Neocybex at all?]

Vos shook his head. [My owner, he used me. Broke me. Threw me away. I have... a problem with my processor. I glitch out. I can't sort out my thoughts, and I have episodes. Tarn helped me get a new upload. Primal is a much smaller language than Neocybex. Simpler concepts.] Vos held up two fingers, barely apart. [It's easier, but I'm trying to learn.]

It wasn't exactly the answer Hot Rod had been expecting, but if Vos wanted to overshare, he could handle that. [I'm sorry,] he said.

Vos shrugged. [Tarn will be good to you too, if you please him and you're obedient.]

[He doesn't have another Autobot he likes better?] Hot Rod asked.

Vos either had a battlemask or no mouth, and he drew the hand-sign for a smile. [None that he'll like better than you.]

Hot Rod rolled his optics. Because why _else_ would anyone want him? He half wished he was important enough to the Autobot cause that the DJD might actually be out to get him. As it was, he already knew where he stood. He was a scout, a recruiter, a unit leader with a handful of insignificant victories to his credit.

Hot Rod, who had run away from his good life at the Palace to play in the dirt. Hot Rod, who would probably go to berth with you if you asked or if you gave him candy. Hot Rod, who wasn't important enough to bring along during the escape--

 _No_ , he thought. _Not now_.

Getting into one of his self-loathing spirals wasn't going to help anyone. Least of all him. Tarn hadn't come all this way to kill him, and Tarn thought the Autobots were extinct. If the tank hadn't seen an Autobot in centuries, it meant the DJD hadn't found the other survivors. In a way, what had obviously been intended to upset and taunt him had been the best comfort Tarn could have offered. When they had carried out Hot Rod's daring plan to escape, it had actually _worked_. There was no other reason for Vos to be evasive.

They were out there somewhere.

They weren't going to rescue him, he knew that, but there were still Autobots left.

If Jazz were still online, maybe he would have been proud of Hot Rod, for figuring it out.

Vos tugged on his arm, apparently waiting for an answer. The rifle looked eager, even excited, and Hot Rod wondered just how many members of the DJD spoke Primal Vernacular. Was it just Tarn? True students of the First Language were rare, even among high-castes. Ratchet had spoken it, and Pharma too - though the Vosian variants were even more unwieldy and difficult than the Iaconian ones. Hot Rod knew a few words, a handful of medical terms that Ratchet had once labored to teach him, a bunch of swears. Whatever had happened to him, when all that light had been poured into him, had it made him fluent?

If it had, and this wasn't some kind of elaborate joke the Decepticons were pulling, there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing Vos. He even seemed friendly, bordering on approachable - his demeanor at odds with the public persona of the DJD. Hot Rod couldn't help but to wonder if it wasn't because Vos knew their captive wasn't ever going to be speaking with anyone else.

[Is Tarn good to you too?] Hot Rod asked, inclining his head towards Vos. If he wanted to stay online, this was the next step. Making inroads with anyone who seemed sympathetic.

Vos nodded happily, and Hot Rod wondered how many members of the DJD Tarn was fragging. All of them? Primus! What the hell did he need a whore for?

Hot Rod stole a glance at Tarn, who was walking in front of them, speaking quietly with Meltdown. There were plenty of stories about Tarn, and all of them were terrifying. There were even mechs who claimed the DJD commander was the spawn of Mortilus, or the Brass-Skinned-Dancer - Unicron in mortal form.

But here on the ship, in the light of day, Tarn looked like a normal mech. Sure, there was his mask and the strange chill that seemed to cling to him, and the power of his voice was not to be denied, but as far as being a monster from myth went, the tank didn't measure up. Tarn was even, if Hot Rod had to guess, short. Well, he was above average for a Cybertronian with a vehicle mode, there was no doubt about that, but as far as tanks and heavy frame-types went, Tarn was smaller than Meltdown.

Hot Rod wondered how Tarn liked to interface, because there was no shortage of stories about _that_ either. Megatron's favorite executioner was allegedly into every kink imaginable, and he had a whole loadout of fragged up interfacing mods. Hooks, barbs, a second spike. Some of the stories went the other way, claiming that Tarn's interfacing array was locked shut with a passcode that only Megatron knew. And while Tarn had said he found rape distasteful, Hot Rod knew that meant nothing, there was no need to seduce a mech you owned.

[It's just--] Hot Rod glanced down at Vos. [My spark. It's not the same as my frame, do you understand?]

[Oh!] Vos patted his arm. [You're just confused, it's okay. I get confused sometimes too. Tarn's not going to take your spark. He just wanted to look. To make sure you were the right one.]

Hot Rod blinked. [The right one?]

They passed onto the bridge, and the doors hissed closed behind them. It must have been very early or very late, because there was only a skeleton crew on duty, though Hot Rod recognized the transport flyer who had been within an ex-vent of tearing out his panels. The sight of the mech made him flinch, but at least this would be the last time he had to see him. Tarn and Meltdown were still speaking quietly with each other, and they headed for the observation window at the front of the room, while Vos tugged on Hot Rod's arm again, indicating that he should stop.

Vos shrugged and reached behind Hot Rod, tapping the stasis cuffs. [Tarn says I can take these off. You're allowed to be comfortable, if you can behave.]

There was no forthcoming explanation about what 'behave' meant, but Hot Rod nodded to Vos anyways. Relief and agony hit him in equal measure when he heard a soft click and the cuffs released. Relief because he could finally pull his wrenched shoulders into a comfortable position, and agony from the cuts and scrapes on his fingers and wrists, which the stasis cuffs had been dulling.

[Thanks, I--] Hot Rod was cut off by the sound of a t-cog engaging, the noise echoing the near-empty room. Instinctively, he looked towards the source of the noise.

It was Meltdown, and the firebreather cycled his cannons and let loose a barrage on Tarn.


	12. Chapter 12

The cell was going to break Hot Rod more quickly than he wanted to admit.

The DJD didn't have to _do_ anything, that was the sick genius of it. Every click of machinery or shift of the ship convinced him that the floor was going to fold away and send him plummeting downwards. Sometimes he would slip into recharge, but after a few minutes some tiny noise would have him panicking and clinging to the berth.

They were still feeding him, but the stress and the lack of recharge meant his energy levels kept, well, falling. He was fueling close to normally, but burning through so much that he was constantly hovering just above red.

Nickel hadn't fixed his chronometer, so there was no way to tell how much time was passing. A few times he'd been close to screaming, and only the thought that no one was listening kept him from begging to be let out.

The worst moments were the ones when he wished Tarn would just come and take him already. At least the tank wouldn't want to frag him in here. They'd have to go somewhere with a real floor--

Primus! What the hell was he waiting for?!

Hot Rod moaned softly and turned on the narrow berth, making sure one hand was always clinging to it. He'd gotten so used to holding his wings down in submission that it felt like the natural position for them, and they no longer scraped against the wall every time he moved. The rational part of his mind told him that clinging to the berth wouldn't even help, it had folded away when they dropped him the first time, but it made him feel just a fraction more secure.

He fell into a fitful recharge cycle that was plagued with dark dreams, of the Palace, of kneeling while he was fed a treat, that it was Tarn's feet he was kneeling at. Of Meltdown and the ugly weight of him.

A click woke him up, and he braced himself for it. This time, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

The floor didn't fold away.

Instead, the whole cell tilted on its side and the wall slid back. It dashed him along the ground outside, like a sparkling's toy, carelessly discarded. Behind him, there were streaks of red paint, from where he'd rolled, and he was grinding his dental chips so tightly that his jaw ached, but he hadn't screamed. At least there was that.

Kaon's foot came down on his chest as he tried to sit up. The blind mech stood over him, alone, his expression all disgust and loathing. In one hand, he was holding a shock prod, one finger near the connector. "Tess was right," he said. "It _is_ funny. Too bad I can't see the look on your face."

So Tarn had finally asked for him.

Hot Rod knew a jealous lover when he saw one, and as absurd as the thought was, he wished one of the others were here.

"Do you know what this is?" Kaon held the prod up. It was a few feet long, and very fine at one end. A modification that made it easier to fit under plating, was Hot Rod's guess.

Hot Rod nodded.

"If you think you can try anything, I'm going to slide the point of this into your audial." Kaon's foot pressed down, and while Hot Rod would have thought he had both height and weight on the Decepticon, the blind mech was outrageously strong. He felt the struts in his chest creak and protest. "It's the most... incredibly agonizing thing, and the real beauty of it is that it doesn't cause any lasting damage."

The pressure lifted and Kaon stepped back. "Get up," he ordered. "Walk behind me and _don't_ talk to me."

"Hey," Hot Rod said, ignoring the order and climbing shakily to his feet. His cell was big enough to stand in, but there was nowhere to walk, so he spent most of his time laying on the berth. Standing upright felt off somehow, and it was difficult to walk without help. Kaon wasn't going to help him, and Hot Rod didn't want to get any closer to the lightning prod than he had to, so he decided make do.

"What?" Kaon kept walking and didn't turn to face him, Hot Rod guessed he should have expected that. "You can't follow simple instructions?"

"How do you, like, get around without bumping into everything?"

Kaon's free hand closed into a fist, and Hot Rod half expected him to swing. Instead, the Decepticon kept walking. "There are cameras everywhere on the ship. I connect to them, wirelessly."

"So, then, it's like you're moving your frame around like its a toy or doll?" Hot Rod squinted. "...and why do you need so many cameras?"

"Megatron likes live feeds, and he likes to watch, in general."

Of course he did.

"He was fond of having Tarn perform for him," Kaon went on. "With another Decepticon, with Soundwave, with a captive."

"With you?" Hot Rod asked.

Kaon laughed sharply, and it crackled in the air. Hot Rod could actually _feel_ it, like a light electrical burn. "Oh no, not me. Never with me. What would anyone want with an outdated, crippled drone when they could have a beautiful Forged mech in their berth?"

"At least you think I'm beautiful."

Kaon's finger came to rest on the connector. "Do not test me, Autobot."

"Is that what Tarn likes? Performing?" They were in the section of the ship that housed crew quarters, and Hot Rod looked straight ahead, at the coils on Kaon's shoulders. The blind mech was old, from before the war, and whatever Series he was in, they had stopped producing them a long time ago. Hot Rod had never seen a drone who looked like Kaon, and if Kaon had been stamped out in a factory press somewhere, there must have been hundreds of thousands like him at one point. Whatever he was, he wasn't an MTO, and he looked too complicated and expensive to be a typical disposable.

They stopped outside the doors the DJD had dragged him to before. Kaon gestured with the lighting prod. "You have the unique opportunity to ask him yourself."

The doors hissed open, and with one more glance at Kaon, Hot Rod stepped through.

*** *** ***

Tarn was working when Hot Rod stepped inside, the tank sat at his desk, elbow deep in reports. Hot Rod took a few steps towards Tarn, until he felt the brush of the tank's fields, cold and still, like dark waters. The ocean at night, the great expanse of the Void, and the sensation made him hesitate.

As he had before, he marveled at the state of Tarn's apartments. Hot Rod had expected them to be ostentatious, even lavish. Instead, there was virtually nothing in them. It probably had something to do with some Decepticon warrior's ideal, but it was still stupid.

Tarn owned little, as near as Hot Rod could tell. There wasn't even padding or blankets on his berth. In a weird way, the way the DJD commander lived like a monk in hermitage reminded Hot Rod of Optimus. Primus! Tarn didn't even have a holoscreen. How did he watch movies and play digital games?

"Kaon sent me," Hot Rod said, trying not to stare at anything for too long. "He said I should come up here and 'face you."

Tarn sighed, powering down the dataslate he was working on and turning in his chair. He still wore his mask, which Hot Rod hadn't expected. He thought Tarn would have removed it in the privacy of his own apartments. When Hot Rod been captured, one of the first things Meltdown had done to him was rip out his battlemask, and no one in the DJD had bothered to replace it - but he still knew it must uncomfortable to wear your faceplate closed all the time.

"I see," Tarn said, "and what do _you_ want, Little Prime?"

"Don't--" Hot Rod flinched. "Don't call me that."

"Is there something you would prefer to be called?"

"My name is Hot Rod," he said, "so that would be better than 'Little Prime' or 'Autobot'."

"You aren't going to choose a new designation?" Tarn set the dataslate aside, amusement toying at his tone. "What about Ignus? Or Incineratus? Stellarus?"

"If you thought I was going to come up here and beg for your spike--" Hot Rod sucked in a deep vent and then blurted it out without thinking, pushing away every thought of the cell's cold, lonely darkness. "It didn't work."

"For whatever it's worth to you, I'm impressed," Tarn said. "Most mechs don't last nearly this long without cracking."

"...and I did 'crack', would that help you justify raping me to yourself?"

"You belong to me," Tarn said, "your frame and your spark, and I need no justifications." He touched his audial with one finger. "...but if it makes you feel any better, I didn't send Kaon to get you. I will, however, have him take you back."

"Wait," said Hot Rod, and his mouth felt dry. "Don't send me back."

Tarn peered at him, his finger still on his audial. "I thought you didn't want to beg, Little Prime?"

"I don't want to beg," Hot Rod said. "I want to make a deal."

Tarn tilted his helm to one side, watching his captive carefully. "You... seem to be under the impression you have something worthwhile to trade."

"I do," said Hot Rod, wondering how much Tarn was like Meltdown. The leader of the DJD seemed to think of himself as civilized and refined, and though the beginning of a plan was forming in Hot Rod's processor, he wondered if it was even possible to negotiate with Tarn. "I have myself."

"I already own you," said Tarn, but his finger did lift away from his audial. "So I'm... deeply curious about what you think the terms will be."

"You want me to come to you willingly," Hot Rod said, hoping his voice sounded more sure than it felt. "I can, or I can at least pretend. And whatever it is you're doing in your weird nightmare room, I'll help. Y'know, without being dragged. I... don't want you to kill yourself in there, and to be totally honest, I think Kaon's worried about that too."

"You should worry about yourself, because I can tell you for certain that Kaon isn't fussing over you."

 _You don't even know_ , Hot Rod thought, even as he worried that Tarn was reading his processor.

"...and you're concerned about me?" Tarn chuckled, and Hot Rod hated the way the sound seemed to pool in his valve. His legs shook, just a little, and he hoped Tarn hadn't noticed. "That's endearing."

"Why shouldn't I be?" Hot Rod asked. "I know exactly what'll happen to me if you die and every officer on your Fleet decides to go all 'Starscream' on each other. I only want to have to worry about pleasing one Decepticon, not a hundred."

"Naturally." Tarn's claws drummed on the arm of his chair, and Hot Rod could feel the weight of his gaze, curious and calculating. "I assume you have demands?"

"Not my spark," Hot Rod said, the words leaving his vocalizer in a rush that sounded to much like begging to be entirely comfortable with them. "...just, please, not my spark."

"I suppose I have to accept that--"

"I'm not finished," Hot Rod said, cutting Tarn off. "I want you to find the Autobots. The ones who left me with Meltdown."

Tarn gestured with one clawed hand. "...and then?"

"I want you to give them the chance to convert, and join your Fleet," Hot Rod said, trying to find some way to read Tarn. The mask made the tank expressionless, and his fields were cold and empty. It made him impossible to size up. Hot Rod couldn't even tell if being interrupted had made him angry. "You said you needed soldiers, so why not Autobots? The war's over."

"That's asking a lot, Little Prime. I have a reputation to uphold."

"It benefits everyone," Hot Rod answered. "And not just them, any other Autobots we find. You at least have to give them the _chance_ to convert."

Tarn fell silent, his hands folded together and his fields still. It made Hot Rod fidget and twitch, because all the tank did was stare, and Tarn's gaze was heavy. It felt like those red optics were boring into him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tarn rose from his seat and in his shadow, Hot Rod felt vulnerable and exposed, though he tried not to show it.

"I have an answer," Tarn said.

"Do you?" Hot Rod tilted his chin, to look up at his captor.

"Go and get on my berth."


	13. Chapter 13

The razerdust barrage hit Tarn in the side. It crawled over his arm, his throat cabling, his mask, and the blast knocked him backwards. One of the tank's secondary intakes snapped, and the cabling twisted and curled upwards, from the heat. His exquisite magenta biolights melted, turned to slag by the shot.

Tarn staggered, but he didn't fall.

Hot Rod didn't know what to think of it, beyond the fact that at that range, he would have expected the blast to kill a mech instantly. He felt like something inside him had shut down, because he couldn't tell if he should be happy, or upset, or terrified.

There weren't many members of the Harbinger's crew on the bridge, but nearly all of them scattered, either terrified of being the next one Meltdown turned his guns on or of the fact that their captain had just assaulted the leader of the DJD. A few of them stood in place, like turbofoxes caught in the headlights, but the huge transport flyer hit his boosters and leaped across the intervening space to Meltdown's side. He either thought they had won already or he had a serious deathwish.

Vos screamed, and threw the cuffs away. Hot Rod heard them clatter to the floor, but the noise seemed distant, far-off. The little rifle started towards Meltdown, and Hot Rod marveled that Vos really _was_ going to try and get into a fistfight with a tank.

Meltdown turned, as if noticing Vos for the first time. There was a brief moment when the firebreather stared in disbelief, and then he rotated his cannons and opened fire on the minibot.

Without quite knowing what he was doing, Hot Rod caught Vos by the waist and lifted him up. Though the rifle came up to just past his shoulder, there was no doubt now that the Decepticon was a minibot where weight was concerned. Vos felt as if he had no mass whatsoever, and Hot Rod couldn't help but wonder if it was a subspace trick. Vos shrieked in fury and back-kicked him in the knee. Pain lanced out from the point of impact, but Hot Rod held onto him, turning his back to Meltdown to shield the rifle from the blast. At least if Tarn and Vos somehow lived, he reasoned, they would kill Meltdown.

The barrage hit him in the back and it sent him flying. Hot Rod landed hard, with Vos pinned underneath him, still screaming.

Two things occurred to him almost immediately.

The first was that he was on fire. The second was that he didn't think he was dying from it.

There was razerdust all over him, and Hot Rod could feel it trickling down under his plating and seeping into his protoflesh. Instead of agonizing, it felt oddly pleasant, even comforting. Like a light flicker of warmth over his armor, or being warmed by the sun.

He was in shock, he was sure of it.

"Get off me! Get off! Unicron's fragging valve! Why are you so heavy!?" Vos was still underneath him, thrashing and screaming. "Get off! Goddamit!"

Hot Rod briefly wondered why Meltdown and his crewmate turned back to Tarn instead of coming over and finishing Vos off, but he realized that to them, Vos' ranting must have have just sounded like screaming. Meltdown must have figured he'd hit Vos too. It was hard to tell from where Hot Rod was laying, but it looked like some of the razerdust had gotten under Tarn's mask, and his optics were dull, maybe burned out. While he tried to clear it, the transport flyer backhanded him and sent him clattering to the ground.

Hot Rod's arms still worked, despite the blast, so he pushed himself up. Vos darted out from underneath him the moment he did, leaping up onto one of the control consoles and clambering up the wall into the girders and spans on the ceiling. Meltdown swore, and he and the flyer tried to follow him with their guns.

"Did he just fragging take off?" the shuttle asked.

"See," said Meltdown. "They're not so tough. Ain't nothing without the threat of Megatron to back them up. It serves him right, thinking he could take my ship and my slave--"

Vos chose that moment to leap back down, transforming to rifle-mode in midair and squeezing off a shot at Meltdown's face. It clipped off the side of the tank's helm, and Hot Rod heard Meltdown yelp in surprise, staggering backwards and clutching his head. Vos transformed back and landed on him, raking his claws down the bigger Decepticon's face, then tearing at the new welds on the tank's secondary intakes.

Meltdown screamed and thrashed, trying to throw Vos off, but the smaller mech held fast. Hot Rod heard the hum of partial transformation, and a click as Vos' face slid away. There was a flash of metal spikes on the inside, and he stuck it to Meltdown's wrist as the tank tried to grab him and yank him away. The shuttle stared, unsure of what to do. It wasn't like he could take a swing at Vos without hitting Meltdown.

Not that it mattered, Vos had done all the damage he needed to, because he'd turned their attention away from Tarn for long enough. 

Hot Rad has seen outliers use their powers before, and to him, it always translated into his processor as 'magic'. So when Tarn climbed to his feet and made the hand sign for a word so old that even the Primal Dialect had trouble translating it, 'magic' was what it seemed like to Hot Rod. Frost crawled over the DJD commander's plating, and the razerdust fire snuffed itself out. The room seemed to grow colder by degrees, and Meltdown's crewmate turned back to Tarn. 

Tarn used his good hand to grab the shuttle by the chestplates and pull him down, until the flyer was close enough that the slit in Tarn's mask was almost touching his audial. 

...and then Tarn said a word so ancient and so cruel that it came crawling out of his vocalizer as though it had physical form. It fell into the room like a drop of black ink into clear water, tainting everything. There was no translation, just darkness and obscenity, and it stung Hot Rod's mind just to listen to it. The shuttle went still, and his optics turned black and melted out. Hot Rod, who was trying to rise, recoiled in terror.

"Protect me," Tarn ordered, patting the bigger mech on the shoulder and then cupping his cheek, as though the broken Decepticon was a treasured pet.

The shuttle turned and opened fire into the mechs who had been watching, then he hit his boosters and leapt across the bridge to the biggest group of them, ripping into them with blasters and pummeling them with fists.

In the time it had taken, Meltdown had finally managed to seize Vos. He was so much bigger than the rifle that Vos almost fit inside his fist, and with both hands, the firebreather clutched the little mech and _twisted_. 

There was a terrible shriek of metal and struts as Vos broke, and Meltdown dashed his ruined frame to floor.

"Now, then--" he said, and Tarn shot him.

The silver-purple blast disintegrated Meltdown's right arm below the elbow, and the second shot curved upwards to blow out one of his cannons. Under normal circumstances, Hot Rod would have been impressed with the split shot. Instead he just stood there, rooted to spot, unsure of what to do, or even how to feel. 

Tarn threw himself on Meltdown, bearing him down to floor, his fist crashing across the bigger mech's face. 

...and just like Hot Rod had done before, he didn't stop.


	14. Chapter 14

Tarn's agreement made Hot Rod feel something that was almost like relief, and he sat down quickly. His aft clanged off the bare metal of the Decepticon's berth, and he wondered how Tarn even recharged on this thing. He looked up, at the mech standing over him. "Are you going to take you mask off?"

"No." Tarn hooked one claw under his chin and tilted Hot Rod's head up, inspecting him. "Now, lay down. On your back."

Hot Rod did it, his spoiler wings uncomfortable as they scraped across the surface of the berth. Tarn came to the edge, gazing down at him as though just looking didn't count for anything. The tank sat, the berth creaking slightly under his weight.

The DJD commander was smaller than Meltdown, but still massive compared to Hot Rod, and the captive Autobot couldn't help but to let his mind wander. There was no shortage of gossip about Tarn. Did he have some kind of nasty mods on his interfacing equipment? Hooks? Barbs? Tarn hadn't opened his array when they had killed Meltdown, but then again, Hot Rod had been unconscious for the end of it.

Every part of Tarn's frame seemed exquisite, so much so that Hot Rod wasn't sure where to start touching him. His biolights had either regenerated or been repaired, and they pulsed with a soft magenta light. Hot Rod brought his hands up to stroke over the tank's elaborate treads, wondering if they were sensitive, and Tarn rewarded him with a deep purr from somewhere inside his frame.

"I've... heard stories," Hot Rod said, tracing his thumbs into the grooves on Tarn's treads. "About you."

"Have you now? Do you have a favorite?" Tarn asked, clearly amused.

"How about the one where Megatron welded your panels shut?" The moment the quip was past his lips, Hot Rod closed his optics and waited for a blow to land. It was what Meltdown would have done, and if Tarn was the same way, then it was best to know now--

Instead, Tarn laughed, the noise echoing behind his mask.

"Oh, I had _forgotten_ how you Autobots love to banter, and I admit I'm out of practice." Tarn's hand came to rest on Hot Rod's midsection, and with one thumb, he stroked over the biolights there. "It's been centuries, after all."

Hot Rod opened one optic, to look up at the mech sitting over him. "If you like talking, I could always quote from Towards Peace while you self-service."

"You're shaking," Tarn said, tracing one claw over a transformation seam. "There's no need for that, and I doubt you could do so to anything resembling my satisfaction."

"I've read it," said Hot Rod, trying to sound casual. "I have some of the dirty poetry committed to a memory file."

"Have you now? From which edition?"

"The first one," Hot Rod said, and though the tank's face wasn't visible, he saw Tarn's optics brighten with curiosity. "I used to have a copy."

"Really?" Tarn leaned down over him, resting his hands on either side of the scarred Autobrand. "I suppose Meltdown took away all your dataslates."

"He did," Hot Rod said, "but it wasn't _on_ a dataslate, and I don't believe for a second that the leader of the DJD doesn't know which... medium first editions were, let's go with, 'expressed in'."

Tarn shifted his weight, just slightly, onto Hot Rod. It was enough to pin him, and the tank leaned down, no longer purring. "...and I don't believe for a second that you were carting a corpse around in your subspace, but it was a good try."

"It wasn't a corpse," Hot Rod said, venting carefully. "It was plating. Etchings."

"Whose?" Tarn asked, instantly. His claws bore down a little, pricking in.

"His name was Topaz, he was an old friend of mine."

"So, then, not a Decepticon."

"He was a temple prostitute," Hot Rod said. "A sympathizer, and a collaborator. He carried messages."

"What happened to him?"

"They caught him," Hot Rod squirmed, as those claws scraped closer to his sensitive protoflesh. "He was executed, and they threw his body from the wall."

"...but not before he managed to smuggle something to _you_." Tarn drummed his claws, then hooked them back in, pulling Hot Rod closer. "Where is it now? What did Meltdown _do_ with it?"

"After he emptied my subspace, he threw everything in a smelter. I think he thought it was garbage."

Tarn's fields darkened, even as Hot Rod wondered how that was even _possible_. Frost crawled over the bare edges of berth, then vanished. No wonder Tarn didn't have padding or blankets. "Unicron's bastard. I should have killed him twice."

Hot Rod tilted his chin up, Tarn's mask was close to his face. Close enough to kiss him, if Tarn had lips. "You're a hopeless romantic."

"Mmmm... perhaps I am. Lucky you."

"Let's... just get on with this. What's your favorite position?" Hot Rod asked, realizing that not only would stalling not work, it might be dangerous to his health. Tarn was a monster, but by far, not the worst one he'd spread his legs for, and anything was better than the narrow, lonely darkness of the cell. "I want you to have me like that."

"That's easy," purred Tarn. "Megatron liked me to kneel while he took me from behind."

"And you..." Hot Rod blinked, and he wondered if his spike would be big enough for Tarn to even get any use out of it. The answer was more candid than he had expected. "You liked that? That was your favorite?"

"I don't expect you to understand." Tarn lifted his claws and stroked over a row of biolights on Hot Rod's midsection, the touch was unexpectedly gentle, and it made him squirm. "Megatron sacrificed so much for us, the fact that he took even the smallest indulgence in my frame was a honor."

"I could--" Hot Rod frowned.

Tarn chuckled, and the sound wound down Hot Rod's frame until it settled between his legs. He felt lubricant pooling and heat behind his panel, his fields flushed. "I don't think you're quite study enough to take me the way Lord Megatron did, Little Prime."

Hot Rod licked his lips, and his glossa felt dry. "Aren't you worried I'll tell someone about this?"

"No," said Tarn, "not in the slightest."

"So what is it you want to do?"

"I just told you, I like to indulge my partners, to watch and feel as take pleasure from my frame. To serve. It would seem it's not that much different from what you like, considering how you wanted me to take you." One of Tarn's hands slid down, between Hot Rod's legs, and his claws traced over the Autobot's closed valve panel.

"I, oh." Hot Rod squirmed again, his spoiler-wings scraping over the berth. "It's not what I was expecting."

"What _were_ you expecting? That I killed after mating? That I had a secret interfacing dungeon? You know nothing about me, outside of propganda and gossip." Tarn tapped Hot's Rod's panel, then palmed it. His hand was deliciously cool against the heat of it, and the touch was light. "Spread your legs, but keep _this_ closed until I give you permission to open it."

He _had_ told Tarn to get on with it, hadn't he? Hot Rod tried not to flinch as he spread his legs and Tarn moved to lay next to him, the tank's hand caressing him shamelessly. His calipers cycled down onto nothing, and lubricant trickled down his valve walls. He had assumed he would never want to open his panels again, but now he had to deny a request from his frame to trigger them.

"When was the last time you overloaded?" Tarn asked, claws tracing idle circles around the seams of his captive's panel. The tank's purr was back, low and deep, and Hot Rod felt it in his main intake.

Hot Rod gritted his teeth and held it closed. "--don't remember." It wasn't a lie.

"Mmmm... tragic, but you belong to me now, and I take care of what's mine."

Tarn leaned into him and touched the slit in his mask to Hot Rod's audial. The purr seemed to carry into his entire frame, crawling over his lines, and Hot Rod's hips ground upwards against Tarn's hand. Behind his panels, his node ached to be touched. The only thing that kept Hot Rod from overloading was that it was _almost_ painful to hold his protesting panel closed. With one hand, he gripped at Tarn's treads, and with the other, he scratched at the berth, just trying to hold onto something.

"Look at you," Tarn said. "So impatient and fussy."

The comment made Hot Rod flush, and if he could concentrate on anything other than his panel, he would have been ashamed at how much a few words and a gentle touch had gotten him charged up. He half-wondered what people might say about him if they saw him writhing in a Decepticon's berth, but then again, it probably wouldn't be much worse than what they said about him already. Tarn's touch was maddening, Hot Rod's cooling fans roared and his engines whined desperately.

"I want--"

"I know what you want," Tarn said, pressing his mask to Hot Rod's audial again. It made the Autobot's entire frame jerk.

"Please--" Hot Rod said, it was half whine and half gasp.

"As you like," Tarn said. He cupped Hot Rod's panel, then rubbed against it with his palm. "Overload for me, _Little Prime_."

The moment the words touched his audial, Hot Rod overloaded. His thighs shook, and he squeezed them together around Tarn's hand. Charge crawled through his lines, making his wings flutter and scrape. His valve ached as his calipers tried to cycle down and found him empty, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Hot Rod was sure he was leaking through his panels. Each ventilation seemed like a great, heaving gasp.

"Good," said Tarn, he withdrew his hand and Hot Rod whined softly. "Very good. I didn't expect you'd be able to stay closed."

Hot Rod gasped, half sick and half relieved, and Tarn leaned over him.

"Now," said the tank, "get some _rest_."

Darkness closed over him instantly, and he slipped into recharge.

*** *** ***

Tarn keyed the door to Kaon's apartments and stepped inside without announcing himself.

Kaon was, unsurprisingly, working. Tarn's second sat at the control console that took up one half of the main room, and on the work surface was one of the memory cores from the Harbinger. Kaon was plugged in, scanning it via his spinal ports, while he tapped away at a dataslate with his hands.

Well, no. Not _his_ hands. These were rebuilds, painstakingly constructed by Lord Megtron's personal physician - though there had been nothing Knock Out could do about Kaon's optics. Full rebuilds had been difficult enough to get before the war, and impossible after Iacon and Vos had burned.

Tarn sat down on Kaon's berth, which had a thin layer of padding along with two layers of blankets and a collection of mesh pillows. They were indulgences that Lord Megatron would not have approved of, but Tarn supposed not every Decepticon was required to live like their master.

"Get out," Kaon snapped. He didn't turn around.

"My berth is occupied," Tarn said. "...and I have _you_ to blame for it. You promised me you would leave the Autobot in his cell."

"You promised me you were going to stop trying to kill yourself in the Choir Room." Kaon did turn around now, cables scraping over the desktop, glaring at Tarn with empty optics. "But I suppose we're Decepticons. It would be facetious for us to expect honesty from each other."

"Kaon--"

"Was he a good frag?"

"I wouldn't know."

"I don't believe you." Kaon turned back to the memory core, jabbing his fingers at the surface of the dataslate as though he had something against it.

The Senate had once enslaved manufactured mechs on the basis that they were lesser beings. Outliers, they said, never rose up from the manufactured masses. They were dull, unremarkable things.

Tarn had never believed it, because the first manufactured mech he'd ever met had been Kaon. Whether Kaon was a true outlier was hard to say, but unlike most mechs, Tarn had trouble reading his thoughts. The words he used to control others rolled right off Kaon. Perhaps it was electrical interference, perhaps Kaon was just too prickly and bitter to fold down his will for another. Whatever it was, Tarn wished he could read his second properly, if only so he would know exactly what to say to him.

Still, an apology couldn't hurt. He had been reckless, there was no denying it. "Kaon, forgive me."

There was no reply, other than the annoyed tap of fingers against the dataslate.

"I'll be more careful in the future," Tarn said. "We were together before the Autobot, we'll be together once he's gone."

"Not if you get yourself killed." Kaon set down the dataslate. "The fleet needs you, Tarn. _I_ need you. We're all that's left of the Cybertronian race. We--"

"Come to berth." Tarn patted the spot next to him. "Let me take care of you."

Kaon was still for a long moment, but then he unplugged and rose from his seat. As he crossed the room, Tarn rose from where he sat to take him by the arms and guide him down.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _jouten_ \- Unicron in mortal form.  
>  The Brass-Skinned-Dancer - The strongest and most destructive of all _jouten_. Some mechs believe that Tarn is the BSD.  
>  The All-Consuming-God-Monster-King - An alternate title for Unicron.

Once, before Hot Rod's time, there had been a city called Kaia on Cybertron, and Kaia's Titan had been named Diamondback.

By all accounts, it had been a very prosperous city too. Most of Kaia's population had been miners, and they had labored painstakingly to extract the gems and crystals that grew inside their Titan's body.

...but Malleus Prime had flown far, far too close to the sun, and his excesses had drained power from Cybertron until the Titans could give no more.

In the end, Diamondback had died, though the spark of a Titan had proved too powerful for the Well to take back. Distraught, the other Matropolii and Patropolii had rejected him from the Great Combination, cutting Diamondback free and ejecting him into space. It was this act that had caused the Voidquake, a whirlwind of destruction and fel energies that had consumed the sparks of every mech in the city, save one.

The Kaians would have been extinct, but not all of them had been in their city when it had fallen.

The night before the Voidquake, about half of the population had seen Unicron's _jouten_ , the Brass-Skinned-Dancer, celebrating in the fields outside of Kaia's walls. Overcome with madness, or perhaps struck by the beauty of the All-Consuming-God-Monster-King, they had left the city in a great procession to join in the revel and been spared.

Well, partly.

The Titan's death knell had still reached them and it had burned them until they were grey, the color of death. And the Prime, Malleus the Forger, had not been pleased to hear the tale. All surviving Kaians, save one, were declared outcaste. They were Unicron's spawn, and they were to be given neither shelter nor energon.

There were others who would have laid down and died, but not the Kaians. They had banded together, traveling in the spaces between cities and navigating the wilds. In time, others had come to them, the lost and the outcaste, escaped slaves and fleeing criminals, persecuted scientists and outlawed religious groups, other Cybertronians without cities, the homeless, the helplessly addicted, the irretrievably insane, and their numbers had grown. The Kaians worked or fought for anyone who would pay them, for the Prime's decrees had less and less meaning the further one got from Iacon.

During the War, there had been Kaians on both sides. Optimus had told them that after the war, he would reverse the Lord Prime's decree, and Megatron had told them that when he was Emperor, any Kaian who had fought for the Decepticons would be a full citizen of Cybertron. There must be some who still believed it, because one of their Wardancers had shown up with the other three members of the DJD.

Her name was Sundiver, but Tarn called her Diamondback, with fondness in his voice.

She was the size of Helex and Tesarus, and that would have been impressive on its own, save that Sundiver was subspacing half her mass. She was a cutter shuttle, with great, sweeping wings, broad shoulders, and thick limbs. Her frame bristled with heavy weaponry and the old battle scars that were proof of its use. Around her chest, she wore a sash of steelsilk, with iron charms pinned to it. She was all grey, the shades of death, with only a few highlights of purple and gold - Unicron's colors.

Hot Rod wasn't entirely sure what to make of her, but he thought she looked a little bit like Megatron. Not in any way that was obvious, but in the way she carried herself, and in the power that cascaded off her energy fields. She seemed triumphant, imperious, untouchable.

Sundiver lifted Vos' broken frame in her arms and cradled him like a protoform, then gently placed him inside one of her internal cargo chambers.

"Are you going to wait?" she asked Tarn without so much as a glance at Meltdown, who was kneeling by the main observation window. Helex stood over him, looking severe.

"No," said Tarn simply. The fingers on his good hand drummed out a discordant rhythm on the arm of the primary command throne, where he had taken a seat after he had subdued the other tank. The other members of the DJD must have been on the ship, because they had come running only moments later, though Hot Rod worried it would already be too late for Vos.

Kaon was the closest one to him right now, standing on Tarn's other side, fussing over his arm. He kept trying to shoot glares at Hot Rod, and he was failing completely, because he had no optics. Tarn's ventilations sounded raspy, labored, and Hot Rod wondered if he had inhaled the razerdust when it had gotten under his mask.

"Damn shame," Sundiver said. "I'll take good care of Vos, and Nickey will fix him right up, you'll see."

"See that she does," Tarn replied, his tone was low and cold, and his optics never left Meltdown.

...and then Sundiver was gone and he was alone with the DJD.

He stood in the spot that Kaon had ordered him to stand in, and with great effort, tried not to fidget or draw attention to himself.

This was very difficult, because he was still on fire. That was still a thing.

"Does it hurt?" Tesarus asked, leaning down and watching curiously. The grinder was looming over Hot Rod, in the same way that Helex was looming over Meltdown. Or maybe he was looming more, Hot Rod was a lot smaller than Meltdown was, and it made it easy to loom.

"Uh, honestly, no?" Hot Rod shrugged. "It feels fine. Sort of like being out in the sun."

"Huh." Tesarus poked him in the chest, over the Autobrand scar. Immediately the Decepticon yanked his hand back, engines grinding. "Frag!"

"Don't _touch_ him!" Kaon snapped. "He's on fire. You can't grab Autobots when they're on fire. We shouldn't have to go through this every damn time!"

"We need a liquid metal solution to wash him off," Tarn said. "We'll get one from the Tyranny when we're done here."

"Stop worrying about the damn Autobot." Kaon's tone was clipped. "You're hurt."

Tarn reached up with his good arm and drew Kaon down, touching their finials together. "I'll tend to it, I promise, when we finish with Meltdown." He released the smaller mech and gestured to Tesarus. "Tess, come here. I need to work, and to do that, I need cuts made."

Tesarus lumbered over to the DJD commander, inspecting him critically, and Hot Rod craned his neck cabling to watch. Tarn's right arm was hideously ruined and burned. The main struts had held, but the plating was corroded and melted, and the protoflesh had sloughed off. The smaller struts, like the ones in his hand, were fused, his fingers twisted together into an unusable, disgusting mass. Hot Rod didn't want to look, but it was hard to turn away, the obscenity of it was somehow fascinating.

"Two cuts," said Tesarus, stroking his chin, and then tapping Tarn's ruined hand with one finger. "I'll separate them here and here. You'll have something to work with and Nickel won't murder me for making it worse. Range of motion ain't gonna be great, but--" He glanced over at Meltdown. "You don't wanna wait and see if Vos makes it?"

"Vos is stronger than you think," said Tarn. "He'll make it."

"Alright," said Tesarus. "Kaon, gimme some space?"

Kaon stepped back and crossed his arms, his expression dire. To Hot Rod, the strangest thing about the whole scenario was how neutral everyone's fields were. Tesarus and Tarn were treating almost being melted into slag like it was just another day at work, which for them, maybe it was. While Hot Rod watched, Tarn magnetized his arm to the command throne, and Tesarus popped a blade out of his subspace, making two cuts to separate Tarn's fingers. Sort of, the end result was an ugly, three-finger claw.

"Good enough," Tarn pronounced.

Gripping the arm of the command throne with his good hand, Tarn pushed himself up. He beckoned to Hot Rod with one finger. "Sit down, Autobot."

"We're going to let him watch?!" Kaon asked, his voice a low, jealous hiss.

"The depends." Tarn turned to face Hot Rod. "Do you want to?"

It wasn't, to borrow a phrase, what Optimus would have done. Optimus would probably, after everything, still try to save Meltdown--

"Yeah," Hot Rod said. "I do."

"Good," said Tarn, crossing the room and hooking one claw under Meltdown's chin, forcing him to look up. "I already know exactly how we're going to start. Helex?"

The huge smelter looked up. "Commander?"

"Bend him over the console and rip off his modesty panels. He's not going to need them anymore."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Get a job? Was Tarn serious?"

When Hot Rod woke up, he was still on Tarn's berth.

He felt oddly normal, if disoriented, and he wasn't in pain. A blue light was blinking somewhere in the apartments, annoying enough that he couldn't slip back into recharge. Hot Rod wondered if Tarn had fragged him while he was unconscious, and hesitantly, he opened up his internal diagnostics and ran a full frame scan. While he waited for it to return, his mind wandered.

Tarn had been so quick to agree to his bargain that Hot Rod wondered if the Decepticon would keep his word. More likely, Tarn thought it wouldn't matter. If there were no other Autobots left, he would never have to make good on his end. Still he _had_ agreed he'd look for the survivors from the Victorious, and--

And what? _What_?

Hot Rod wondered what the frag he would even say to them if he found them.

They'd known what Meltdown was doing to him and they'd left him behind anyways.

It was what he'd been sparked for, wasn't it?

Hot Rod wrapped his arms around himself and curled up. He didn't want to rise from the berth, but his tanks were clenching with hunger, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be laying here when Tarn got back, whenever that would be. Nonsense numbers swirled on his chronometer, and Hot Rod decided he'd ask Tarn if their doctor could fix it.

The scan results popped up on his HUD and caught his attention, they confirmed that he'd suffered some kind of automatic shutdown, but neither his spike nor valve had been used. Huh. Was that Tarn's weird way of trying to give him space?

It didn't really matter, he knew he couldn't just lay here feeling sorry for himself, and he sat up slowly, swinging his legs down from the berth. His frame felt sluggish and stiff, and frag the Decepticon warrior ideal, recharging without padding or blankets was the dumbest thing in the entire goddamn world. Screw it, he was going to ask for a blanket too. While he was at it--

Hot Rod looked up, toward the source of the blue light. Tarn's computer was still on. There was even a program open, a cursor blinking in the dim illumination of the apartment. The text on the screen looked like code, but Hot Rod wondered if he couldn't figure it out. After all, he had become fluent in the Primal Dialect overnight. He slid off the berth and crossed the room to the desk. Maybe he could learn where they were, or which other Decepticons were here, or if Tarn had made any real progress in locating the Ark.

Frag. Tarn couldn't be that careless, could he?

As Hot Rod reached out to touch the key-panels, he heard a t-cog engage, and a foot slammed down on his wrist, pinning him to the desk. He jerked his head up.

It was Vos, and the rifle stood over him. He must have been laying on the shelf above the desk, in his alt-mode. He was small enough that he would have been just out of sight.

"Don't," said Vos, "do that. It'll make Tarn upset."

"Frag!" Hot Rod tried to pull his wrist free and the strut protested. Vos was stronger than he looked and he was bracing against the shelf. Even though Hot Rod was bigger and heavier, he couldn't move the minibot. "How long were you up there?!"

"Long enough. I hear you're part of the crew now." Vos shifted his weight and pressed down on his wrist, and Hot Rod gritted his dental chips against the pain. "You wouldn't go snooping through Optimus' personal computer, would you?"

"What? And miss out on my chance to know for _sure_ if he had weird porn of Megatron on it or not? Of _course_ I'd go through his personal computer." Hot Rod gripped the edge of the desk, wincing. "What kind of question is that!?"

"Huh." Vos looked left, then right, then leaned forward, towards Hot Rod. "I guess that's fair." His foot lifted and Hot Rod jerked his arm back and held it against his body, holding his wrist. "But you still can't go through Tarn's!"

"Alright, okay, point taken. There was no need to step on me."

Vos sat down on the edge of the desk. "Now that you're Tarn's too, I want us to be friends, but we can't be friends if you do things like this. Tarn is my partner, he'll always come first. He needs me to protect him, do you understand?"

Hot Rod nodded. "I understand completely." Loyalty was a prized trait in minibots, especially rifles, and they pre-screened manufactured sparks for it. The thought that someone had used Vos and thrown him away made Hot Rod's own spark clench, even if he knew the Decepticon couldn't _really_ be his friend.

"Good," said Vos, happily. "Then there's no harm done, and we can just keep this between us and go see Tarn. He wanted to talk to you as soon as you woke up."

Vos hopped down from the desk and went to the wall, pressing an invisible panel and sliding it away to reveal a dispenser. He extracted a cube and handed to Hot Rod, who was almost afraid to take it. Meltdown would have slapped or beaten him for reaching for a cube, but here, Vos held it out as though that was all there was to it. Hot Rod took it, trying not to let his hands shake too badly as he thought of how he was going to pay for it, and gulped it down so quickly he couldn't taste it. It was basic midgrade, but when it hit his tanks it made his head spin.

"It's okay," Vos said, gripping his elbow and steadying him, with his free hand, he took the empty cube and dispersed it. "It'll all pass. You'll get used to eating again."

"Let's... just go and see Tarn."

*** *** ***

The Peaceful Tyranny was actually docked inside of the War World, and it was a much smaller ship than Hot Rod had thought. Probably sub-orbital, and not much bigger than a crew of five would need. As he walked with Vos down the ramp, he glanced around at the other ships in the bay, wondering if one of them was Sundiver, though none of them had her distinct coloring.

He took note of every Decepticon they passed, though not every mech they passed was a Decepticon. Out of every five Cybertronians, perhaps two or three were Decepticons, one was one of Deathsaurus' beastformers, and one was a Kaian. There were even sparse groups of badgeless mechs, with frame-types Hot Rod didn't recognize.

"Colonists," Vos said. "Once the Dar'vhok couldn't find any more native Cybertronians, they went after the colonies."

"I thought the colonies were mythological," Hot Rod said. "Old stories."

Vos shrugged. "Naw. Some of them will probably like you a lot, the ones who are Primal worshipers, but, uh--"

"It'll upset Tarn?"

"Yeah," said Vos. "Even if the Fleet is diverse enough now that he kinda has to ignore it unless its a Decepticon. As a general rule though, don't try and get people to worship you."

Hot Rod rolled his optics. "I don't _want_ people to worship me."

"See," Vos said, "you're already getting the hang of it."

"Hey, does Tarn make you recharge on that shelf in his room?"

"No," said Vos. "I recharge in my own room, or in his berth, but a shelf is fine sometimes. A stand is always better, but a shelf can be okay if it's wide enough. You were taking up the whole berth, and I thought if you woke up with me there, you might be upset."

Hot Rod blinked. The thought that any of them would be even remotely concerned with his comfort seemed odd, but Vos was, in his own strange way, also an owned mech. They passed a group of Decepticons, and Hot Rod felt the heat of their stares, but none of them spoke. Vos paid them no mind, and Hot Rod tried to imitate him. "You recharge on a stand?"

"I'm a rifle, how else would I recharge in my alt-mode? Do you think I'd just flop down on the floor like a piece of garbage?" Vos raised an optic ridge. "I mean, slag the Functionalists, but you'd recharge in a garage, right? Because you're a car."

"Right," said Hot Rod, not that he could transform anymore. "I'm just... glad, I guess, that Tarn treats you well. That you found someone to take care of you."

Vos beamed. "He'll take care of you too, just don't make him upset. I'll help you with that, but you're doing great so far."

They came to a set of wide double doors, and Vos keyed a pad set into the wall next to it. Hot Rod tried to look casual, but he watched the minibot and memorized the code. Not that there was anywhere to go, even if he got it in his processor to try and run. Even _Tarn's_ berth couldn't be as bad as a Consortium dissection table.

Hot Rod considered it as he passed into what looked like a vehicle repair bay with Vos. Tarn was here, speaking with two other mechs, neither of whom were members of the DJD. They were both Decepticons, and to Hot Rod's optic, one of them looked old. Ancient almost, and definitely pre-War. He was taller than Tarn, and by his tires and windows, Hot Rod guessed he was a hauler. The Decepticon was pitted with battle scars and dents, and there was a heavy weariness about him.

A Kaonite, without a doubt. Probably a miner. One of Megatron's old followers, a mech with a badge as old as the Cause itself, and Hot Rod found it curious. From what he'd read in Autobot briefings (during the rare times he'd cared to read them) the _really_ old-school Decepticons were the ones who _really_ hated Tarn and the DJD. Distantly, he thought he recalled Jazz telling him that Megatron's oldest followers were the ones most likely to go rogue, but politics made strange berthfellows. Well, politics and a far-reaching Empire of organics who were fragging determined to cut them all up for parts.

The other Decepticon was younger. Some flavor of MTO whose designation Hot Rod didn't immediately recognize. One of the more generic prints, he thought.

"He's awake," said Vos as they crossed the room. "I brought him."

"Good," said Tarn, and Hot Rod had to resist the urge to roll his own optics when he saw the Decepticon leader's rake over his frame. "Because we have a lot of work to do."

Hot Rod blinked. "We do?"

"Yes." Tarn plucked something out of his subspace, a purple datapad with a Decepticon logo stamped on the back. He held it out and Hot Rod stared at it. "Take it."

There was nothing to be gained by refusing or making a scene, and Hot Rod reached for the datapad. The moment he had it in his hands, it sensed his energy signature and powered on, a barrage of programs compiling and loading.

"What's it for?" Hot Rod asked.

"It's a personal development planner," Tarn explained. "There are some applications on it that will help you with your duties. A schedule, a weekly goal-journal. Everything you need for your day-to-day--" He cut himself off. "Don't make a face. Vos can explain the rest."

"A schedule," Hot Rod said.

"A schedule," Tarn confirmed. "Hot Rod, after today, I won't have much one-on-one time for you, so please pay attention to the orientation and appreciate that I'm doing this personally."

Hot Rod stared at him.

"Am I being clear?" Tarn asked, and Vos covered his face with one hand. The other two Decepticons watched, clearly amused.

"I'm not usually at a loss for words," Hot Rod said, "but _what_ the frag am I bring oriented to?"

"To your duties to the Decepticon Warfleet."

"I already know how to suck spike, Tarn." Hot Rod felt his fields heat up, and he held himself back from throwing the datapad, just barely. "I'm actually really good at it, I don't need a planner."

"I apologize," said Tarn, plainly. "I wasn't aware."

Hot Rod blinked, because the response was so far off what he had been expecting, he didn't have a retort. "Yeah, well--"

"I wasn't _aware_ ," Tarn said, and now Hot Rod felt power start to coil though the tank's fields and voice as the Decepticon put stress on each word, "of how unclear I was being when we made our arrangement."

"You weren't," said Hot Rod, "being unclear."

"Excellent," said Tarn. "So then, we agree that in exchange for clemency for any Autobots I find, as well as being accepted into the Fleet as a full member, you were going to come to me willingly."

"If you think--"

"To be more clear," Tarn said, reaching out and tapping one claw over the scar of Hot Rod's Autobrand. "You bought your way in by agreeing to frag me."

Hot Rod fields burned, and he clenched his hands into fists. With one, he swatted Tarn's claws away. "That's different! I'm not going to become a Decepticon!"

"Of course you're not," said Tarn. "Even if every other aspect of your ascension didn't make you spiritually and ideologically unsuitable, there's still the fact that I would never allow it." The tank paused. "But you _are_ going to work for me. You're a member of the Fleet. Members of the Fleet work."

"Outside of fragging you?!" Hot Rod wasn't sure if he was offended or angry. Maybe it was both. The MTO was actually covering his mouth to avoid laughing, and Vos perched at Tarn's elbow, watching curiously. Hot Rod wondered how much of this was going over the minibot's helm. It seemed like Vos could somehow parse Neocybex, even if he didn't speak it.

"Outside of fragging me," Tarn confirmed. "Are you done? We have a lot of work to do once you're finished with your tantrum and my time is very valuable."

Hot Rod pointed at him. "You are so unbelievably dishonest!"

In response, Tarn tapped the badge he wore over his spark chamber. "May I continue?"

"No! I'm not going to help you and your cronies terrorize the galaxy or hurt organics!" Hot Rod wanted to grab Tarn and shake him, but that would get him exactly nowhere.

"Of course you're not," said Tarn, and Hot Rod sensed the tank's fields cooling as his patience wore thin. "You are, again, completely unsuitable for it. However, when you worked for Optimus, you were a scout, and a recruiter. It's the second part that interests me, so let's talk about that."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story about the DJD, but there's some fairly fucked up torture shit that goes down in this chapter, just FYI.

The first time Tarn had killed a mech, it had taken a very long time.

Looking back on it now, he was almost embarrassed at how clumsy he'd been. The way he had fumbled like a sparkling. The mess he had made. The regretful way in which he had hesitated.

When he had finished, his teachers had come, and with gentle hands, they had showed him how it was to be done. What could be taken without killing a mech. What could be bent without breaking. What caused pain but no lasting damage. Which cuts were fatal and which weren't.

The next time they had brought him a mech to kill, he had been clever enough to ask how they wanted it done.

They had been pleased, and later, one of them had fed him an enegon treat.

Even four million years later, he remembered the taste. It had been salty-sweet, filled with some sort of gel that had exploded onto his tongue. Too much for the first time he had ever been fed though his oral intake, and he had gulped and then choked. Sometimes, when he was working, it was as though he could still feel it in his mouth. A Coglovian reaction, he thought, but it wasn't like there was a psychiatrist to confirm.

From where Helex and Tesarus held him down, Meltdown was looking up at Tarn. There was a thin trickle of energon running down his thighs, the result of Tesarus ripping out both of the firebreather's modesty panels.

It wasn't an ideal work environment. They were on Meltdown's own ship, and while the bridge crew had scattered, there was still a chance (however small) the mechs aboard would try and rescue their Captain. It wasn't only that. Tarn would have preferred to have the Autobot secured somewhere, because he had no doubt that his team could fight their way out if it came to that, but he didn't want to have to worry for the safety of his prize.

If Tarn had had his way, killing the mech who had put his hands on Vos would have taken _days_. As it was, he had mere hours, perhaps less than that. With a sigh, the DJD commander resigned himself to working quickly and reflected on the fact that he didn't live in a perfect world. 

Tarn paused for a moment and cleared his damage reports. Sweeping them off his HUD, he cancelled all of them. Nickel would be furious with him for forcing her to pick through his frame manually, but he didn't like distractions while he worked, and even the tiny blinking reminders were unacceptable. He was in pain, a slow, agonizing burn, but he ignored it. He had had far worse.

Normally a mech couldn't cancel his own damage reports or modify personal self-repairs, but Tarn had barely had to threaten the little traitor who was Pharma's ward manager before the wayward medic had written the program for him and helped him upload it. It was strange, that in the end, Ambulon had been worth more to Tarn alive.

Kneeling down, he hooked one claw under Meltdown's chin and forced optic contact, drinking in the mech's fear and defiance as though it were sweet engex.

"Meltdown," Tarn said, and he heard himself purring, little rumbles of anticipation rolling through his frame. It was a bad habit, but far from the worst one he had. "Meltdown, Meltdown, Meltdown. Better mechs than you have tried."

"H-how--?" Meltdown's vocalized popped and glitched. From the range at which the fusion cannon had hit him, cauterization had been instant, but losing his arm to trauma like that couldn't be good for his internals. His systems were probably running amok.

"How am I still alive?" Tarn laid his arms over Meltdown's shoulders languidly, drawing him close, as though the other mech were a lover. The firebreather tried to jerk back as their frames came together, but Helex and Tesarus held him in place. "I promise I'll tell you, before the end."

Meltdown started to say something, and Tarn held one of his good fingers against the other tank's lips.

"Shhhh," Tarn said, letting power creep into his voice. "Don't try to talk. I don't want you to burn your vocalizer out. Not yet."

He moved back, letting his claws prick over Meltdown's frame, getting a feel for what was sensitive as they caressed wires and slipped under plating. Kaon was busy sealing the bridge doors, because while Helex and Tesarus were serviceable, they lacked Kaon's intimate knowledge of the ways a mech might be restrained. Kaon, however, hated distractions as much as Tarn did, and he would join them when he was good and ready.

Meltdown was bigger than Tarn was, most other heavy vehicles were, and Tarn had long ago gotten over that unfortunate fact of his development. It would have been nice to have a few more feet on his contemporaries, but he didn't linger on the thought. Meltdown's aspect was fire, that was no challenge to see, and though Tarn had to guess, he would have said that the firebreather's stars were the Ship's Wheel. Tarn's regard for horoscopes was barely elevated above his regard for religion, but still, what an unremarkable alignment.

"What's your sign?" Tarn asked, resting his hands on Meltdown's hips.

'W-what?" Meltdown stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Your star sign," Tarn explained, keeping his tone patient, indulgent. "Which stars did you follow, to get here?"

Meltdown didn't answer, perhaps he felt it was defiance, but he thought of the whirling blue-gold stars of the Ship's Wheel and Tarn knew it anyways. Defiance was useless, but it was amusing, and Tarn gave him credit for trying. Using his thumbs, he caressed Meltdown's hips, keeping an optic on Meltdown's deeply recessed and armored spike housing. The other tank's spike was still retracted, but Tarn knew he must be doing it with an override, or perhaps some kind of combat programming. There were very few mechs who could resist once he got this close, and Meltdown had no notable reserves of spirit or will.

"You like to use that," Tarn said. "Don't you?"

"Frag you," Meltdown spat at him, energon mixed with oral lubricant, and Tarn leaned away as Tesarus slammed the firebreather against the floor with a shriek of metal.

 _Artless_ , thought Tarn, _but direct_. With Tesarus, what you saw tended to be what you got.

"Now," said Tarn, "I don't know if you know this, but Vos told the Autobot that he was going to cut your spike off and make you eat it. It's... spectacular, but crude." Tarn paused. "Vos is new, and very young, relatively speaking. He needs more training."

Kaon had come over, Tarn heard the light sound of his footfalls. As always, his second paused just at the edge of his energy fields, and Tarn felt the sizzle in the air, like a light electrical burn. Without a word, Kaon transformed, and at the sight of his alt-mode, Meltdown flinched and tried to throw Helex and Tesarus off. It was pointless, but he tried.

The Chair was imposing, it couldn't be denied. Megatron had had it built specifically for Kaon to scan, though Tarn could see the echoes of Kaon's previous alt-modes within it. The Array transformer, the power regulator, the many-armed maintenance drone. Holdover Syndrome, that was what a doctor would have called it. Tells during the transformation sequence and in the alt-modes, the result of changing base forms too many times.

Helex and Tesarus hauled Meltdown up, protesting, and forced him down into the chair. Restraints transformed out of Kaon's panels and wrapped around the tank, securing him. He screamed and thrashed, but Tarn had no fear of him getting loose. Kaon was far, far stronger than he looked, he had been made to withstand the energy stresses of _Titans_ , and Tarn had seen him restrain Phase Sixers without complaint. Compared to that, Meltdown was nothing.

Tarn stood, gazing down at his captive, and out of the corner of one optic, he chanced a look at the Autobot. So far, Hot Rod hadn't said anything. He sat where he had been ordered to and he watched, fidgeting, his spoiler-wings flicking occasionally and then coming to rest in a submissive position. Tarn wondered how long it would take for him to get squeamish.

Unlike the Autobot, Meltdown was nothing special to look at. He was blocky and heavy. Constructed cold, though no care had gone into his frame. He wasn't a work of living art, the way Kaon and Vos were. His valve was simple, a narrow line with no adornments or external folds, and Tarn assumed the other tank didn't use it all that often.

Reaching down, Tarn stroked over Meltdown's spike housing, tracing the seams with the tips of his claws. "I had something a touch more... creative in mind." He paused. "Pressurize this, I know you want to."

[I don't want his filth all over me,] Kaon said, over the comm.

[Forgive me,] Tarn answered. [I always make you suffer for my work.]

[You do, actually.]

When Meltdown didn't comply, Kaon hummed with the sound of partial transformation and extended a slim wand. He touched it to Meltdown's audial - a favorite spot to administer shocks to - and the tank twisted and screamed.

"Come now, Meltdown." Tarn rested his ruined hand on Kaon and stroked the tank with the other. "I know you find me attractive. When you shot me, you thought about raping me once I was disabled. Shameful."

"That true?" Helex asked.

Tarn turned to him and nodded. He caught sight of the Autobot again. Hot Rod had turned away, hugging himself with both arms. Sooner then Tarn had thought. Oh well. He'd let him sit through a little more, in the name of whatever would pass as closure here.

"Hn." Helex gestured with one of his lower arms. "You need me and Tess to take over?"

"No," said Tarn, pleased to see them concerned with his comfort, but still outwardly professional. "Like I said. Nothing so crude."

"You would have deserved it," Meltdown snapped out. His vocalizer was raw with static, and Tarn suspected he had spent the last minute trying to clear it. The outburst had clearly been meant to anger him, but Tarn was above that. "Mortilus' bastard."

"Oh." Tarn chuckled, and didn't address either accusation directly. "Probably."

He leaned back down over Meltdown, his hand coming back to the other tank's spike panel. "Now," he said, letting the tiniest bit of power creep into his voice. " _Pressurize this_."

It happened instantly, the firebreather's control slipping and his spike unsheathing and sliding free into Tarn's waiting hand as he shuddered in fear and disgust. Like his valve, Meltdown's spike was nothing special. It was blunt, ugly, and heavy, and Tarn felt a rare moment of pity for the Autobot for having to take it for so long. No matter. That was over now.

"See," he said, squeezing it slightly, "how simple that was? This next part is simple too. Every time I hurt you, you're going to overload for me, and later, since you can't play nicely with this, I'm going to take it away."

[I hope you're prepared to spend an entire day cleaning me off,] Kaon said. [Once Nickel is done rightfully abusing you.]

[A duty and a pleasure.] Tarn let go of Meltdown's spike, and surveyed the restrained mech. Reaching down, he gripped one of Meltdown's fingers and tore it out at the lowest joint. Part of the firebreather's internal cabling came with it, and Tarn tossed it away, carelessly. Meltdown gritted his teeth, but didn't scream. [I love taking care of you, my precious, beautiful amica.]

[I mean it, Tarn.] Kaon extended the wand again, pressing it to Meltdown's side without ceremony, and holding it there until the shock wrenched a scream out of him. The tank sagged a little, black smoke seeping upwards from the seams of his armor. [Both parts. You're injured. Just kill him and let's go back to the Tyranny.]

"Meltdown," Tarn lifted the firebreather's chin again, forcing optic contact. "Kaon just shocked you because you didn't do as I said. When I hurt you, I want you to overload for me. You won't like it if I have to... let's say, use verbal forms of encouragement."

[Are you even listening to me?] Kaon extended wands again, three of them this time, and he shocked Meltdown haphazardly. The captive Decepticon strained against the restraints, ribbons of paint curling up from underneath them as he scraped and fought.

[Of course I am,] Tarn said, [and I can see you're agitated. You always get sloppy when you're agitated, look at what you're doing. Just look at it, Kaon.]

[Mmmmm, yes. Try to think why that might be.] Kaon extended one of the lower wands and touched it to Meltdown's anterior node, though he didn't shock him. In response, the tank flinched and made a brief noise of fear. [It's bad enough that Vos was injured, but now you're endangering yourself over what? An _Autobot_?]

Tarn reached down, and using his melted hand, he gripped Meltdown's spike. "Keep this _pressurized_ ," he ordered, giving it a light stroke and prodding Meltdown with a psychic nudge. [Vos would want me to do this personally.]

[Vos would want you to still be alive,] Kaon snapped, [but what would I know? I'm just a drone.]

[Kaon,] Tarn sighed. [Don't be like this.]

[How would you like me to be?]

[Professional, for one.] Tarn glanced up and caught sight of the Autobot again. He was sitting limply in the main command throne, looking away. It wasn't the reaction Tarn had hoped for. He loved having an audience, and he couldn't pretend he wasn't put off by the lack of interest.

[Are you looking at that Autobot?] The slender limbs that held Kaon's wands flailed. [Unbelievable!]

[Are you...?] Tarn loathed having to guess, and not for the first time, he wished he could read Kaon's thoughts. What made Kaon different from every other mech on Cybertron, Tarn didn't know, but all he ever got from his second was a screeching buzz of static. [Jealous?]

[That's it!] An array of tools flared out of Kaon's frame, drills, scalpels, knives, saws. They rustled and let loose a metallic trill, like a bird about to take flight, and then he attacked Meltdown with them. [I'm ending this, we're going home! Go get the Autobot, since you love him so much!]

Tarn sighed and took a step back, resigned. He'd have to sort Kaon out later, but there was so much to do.

"Commander?" Helex asked.

"Take over," Tarn ordered. "Do as you please."

"Much obliged, Commander."

Tarn turned away, crossing the room towards the Autobot. Meltdown's screams echoed off the walls, each pause full of ugly, wet noise. He didn't need to look, he'd seen what was happening a thousand times. Hot Rod sat where Tarn had left him, staring downwards, his optics dim. He looked lost in his own helm, and he didn't protest when Tarn picked him up. If not for his wavering energy fields, he would have been dead weight.

"No need to watch the rest," Tarn said. "Go to _sleep_."

Instantly, the Autobot sagged against him, his fields quiescent and his optics closed. He was so warm that Tarn wanted to touch him everywhere, but he restrained himself. This wasn't the time.


	18. Chapter 18

Hot Rod knew it was in his best interests to endure the orientation, but just like any Autobot briefing, he was resolved to loathing every minute of it.

Tarn had Hot Rod walk alongside him, with Vos following just behind. At a distance, the two mechs from the vehicle bay shadowed the little group, and Hot Rod wondered what their deal was. It wasn't like they were being subtle about it.

[Are you listening?] Vos asked, out of nowhere. [Please listen and pay attention to the orientation. Tarn doesn't normally do them himself, he just told you that.]

[I'm listening,] Hot Rod said. [What are you, his helperbot?]

[Um... yes? That's kind of exactly what I am. I _help_ Tarn shoot people in the face.] There was a pause. [He's actually barely above average accuracy without my help.]

[I saw him do a split shot when he fought Meltdown,] Hot Rod said. [It was pretty impressive.]

[Primus on his Throne!] Behind him, Hot Rod heard Vos clicking and twitching. [A split shot!? You don't _need_ to be accurate with a _fusion cannon_! Not at that range! Or ever! Impressive!? I'm so embarrassed right now. I'm embarrassed for every Autobot I know. My spark is about to exit my frame from the second-hand embarrassment.]

[Uhhh...] Hot Rod glanced back. [Am I the _only_ Autobot you know?]

[Yes!] Vos pointed at him. [But that isn't the point! Any idiot can fire a fusion cannon! What I do is _art_!]

[Are you offended?]

[Deeply, but pay attention to the orientation.]

"...three hundred, and eighty-one," Tarn said, turning to Hot Rod and waiting for a response.

Hot Rod snapped back and flashed the Decepticon his best fake smile, letting his optics flick briefly over Tarn's dark form as though he were interested. He knew he was good-looking, and he knew Tarn liked what he saw. There was no reason not to exploit it. "Impressive," he answered.

"Of course it is." Tarn turned and continued walking, and although Hot Rod vowed to pay attention this time, the DJD commander started talking about energon expenditures and rationing and documented usages and his processor tuned it all out. Hot Rod had assumed that Tarn's voice was always sensual and arousing, but no, apparently not. Bureaucracy really was _that boring_. Absently, Hot Rod wondered what had happened to Ultra Magnus. Magnus would have gotten off on this. Or not. Self-servicing during a briefing was _probably_ prohibited by the Autobot Code. Probably.

He pinged Vos. [Hey.]

The reply was immediate. [Pay attention. My processor is damaged. You don't have an excuse.]

[My brain module is turning into mush.]

[That'll make it a lot easier to get it out of your helm once Tarn realizes you're ignoring him,] Vos said, flippant.

[Okay,] said Hot Rod, keeping his optics forward. [What's Kaon's deal? I mean, Tarn's facing you too, isn't he? And Sundiver? And the rest of the DJD? Stop me if I'm wrong. Megatron's pretty much a free space, but who else? Soundwave? ...Starscream? Also? Let's be real here, I can't be the first Autobot you've captured. Does he rape all of them, or just the pretty ones?]

[It's different!] There was a pause, then a series of rapid, annoyed clicks from behind him. [No! Tarn doesn't like that, but sometimes Megatron told him he had to! Don't ask me questions so fast! Just one at a time!]

Not for the first time, Hot Rod wondered if that was the truth or if it was just another Decepticon lie. He wouldn't put past Tarn to tell his minibot that just to shut Vos up, but he thought of the way Tarn had fallen on Meltdown, and the anger in his fields that had frozen the air. Maybe the DJD were closer than Hot Rod had imagined. [Sorry, one more. Why doesn't Tarn just ask Kaon for his oaths?]

[Megatron said no. We shouldn't talk about it. It'll make Tarn upset.]

[He probably knows we're talking. He can read my processor and you're back there clicking like mad.] Megatron said no? Hot Rod wondered what the hell that meant, and why Tarn would have needed Megatron's permission in the first place. He forced his attention back to the Decepticon leader and tried to stay focused.

"We need to keep the Fleet moving almost constantly," Tarn said as they passed into a common area. If he knew that Hot Rod and Vos were talking, he didn't show it, or perhaps he was reserving his fury for later. "Or the Dar'vhok will find us. It uses up immense amounts of fuel, so we spend a great deal of our rest periods generating. Rationing is extremely strict. They can't detect the beastformers yet, so that helps when we locate a cache or an older Decepticon base."

"Are we at rest right now?" Hot Rod asked.

"Yes," said Tarn. "We need to move soon, a day more, maybe two. The engineers will let me know, but before that, we need to take you down to the planet."

"Take me down to the planet?" Hot Rod blinked. "What's down on the planet?"

"Nothing much of value, I suspect. It's swarming with organics, but their national sport might interest you." Tarn drew a datapad from his subspace and tapped it a few times, handing it over to Hot Rod. On a screen was an advertisement for a vehicle race. Hot Rod didn't recognize the glyphs that made up the alien language, but somehow he could read the words perfectly.

Hot Rod glared back up at the Decepticon. "I want to go on a date with you even _less_ than I want to be part of his orientation."

Tarn took the edge of the datapad between his claws and pulled it away, his optics narrowed and dimmed. "Good. Because I have no desire to 'date' you either, but you're useless to me if you can't drive." The two Decepticons who had been shadowing them had come up a little closer, and Tarn pointed to them. "Flux and Claymore will take you down to the planet to scan a new--"

"Wait." Hot Rod turned to look at them now. " _The_ Flux and Claymore?"

"In the alloy," the older mech said, clearly amused.

"As in, 'Megatron's bodyguards, Flux and Claymore'?"

"You're smarter than you look, Autobot." The younger mech smirked.

Hot Rod looked between them. "Where's Barricade?"

"On the Nemesis," said the bigger mech. He was the Kaonite, the one who looked like a hauler from the mines. Flux, Hot Rod guessed, as in, flux materials. "So either he's dead or he's been on vacation for millennia, that goddamn slagger."

"Okay." Hot Rod turned back to Tarn. "I wasn't going to say anything about the fusion cannons, that's obviously a stylistic choice, but having Megatron's bodyguards follow you around seems a little--"

"They aren't following _me_ around, Autobot." Tarn took a step closer and Hot Rod flinched as he felt the air cooling, but the DJD commander didn't raise his hand. "Vos is my bodyguard, and I have no need of any others. Do _not_ insult him in his presence or outside of it by presuming otherwise. They're following _you_. They're _your_ bodyguards. Show some respect."

Out of the corner of his optic, Hot Rod saw Vos cross his arms and try to look as menacing as Tarn. It didn't work. He looked back, at Claymore and Flux. The younger mech waved a little. That would be Claymore, the MTO. Hot Rod boggled. His bodyguards? It was hard to believe that he was precious or valuable. So was Tarn actually worried about him? Concerned for his saftey or health?

No. That was stupid.

It was more likely that Tarn thought he'd try and take off, and the tank couldn't watch his captive all the time.

"Apologize to Vos," Tarn said, "and we'll finish our tour."

"Sorry," Hot Rod said, trying to sound contrite. He didn't want to provoke the mech who owned him, and thus controlled his fate.

"You'd goddamn better be," Vos said. Over the comm, he added, [It's cool. I'm not mad, just trying to look mean. I get confused all the time, it's nothing to be embarrassed about.]

*** *** ***

The medbay was the next part of the tour, and Hot Rod met Nickel for the second time.

"Hey," she said. "You stopped crying. That's good."

"Yeah," Hot Rod said. "I haven't cried in a few days. I even managed to keep it together when Tarn gave me a really terrible handjob."

"He does that," she said, snorting with laughter and patting the medical berth. Behind her, Tarn rolled his optics and Claymore pretended he was clearing static from his vocalizer. Flux leaned on the doorframe, apparently above that sort of humor. "Hop up on the slab."

No beating materialized, and Hot Rod did so, wondering what this was about. He didn't wait long though, because Nickel arranged some tools and pointed to the melted remains of his Autobrand.

"That's gotta go," she said.

Hot Rod looked to Tarn and shook his head. "No. That's not part of the deal."

"It's not my decision to make," Tarn said. "Nickel is your doctor. I don't outrank her in any medical matter. If she says it has to go, it has to go."

"Look," said Hot Rod, wondering if Tarn had simply ordered Nickel to remove it and act as though it were her own idea. Was he being too paranoid? _Could_ you be too paranoid where the DJD were concerned? "I don't expect you to understand, but--"

"I understand you're going to get a fragging rust infection," Nickel said, tersely. "Now sit still and don't complain while I extract it."

Hot Rod flinched away and Nickel rummaged through the tools and then rolled up a little ramp onto the slab. None of them were torture devices, it all looked like legitimate medical equipment, Primus knew he'd seen enough of it when he was younger. Maybe the little minibot was on the level. The real deal. She extracted some pliers and a scalpel, and Hot Rod wondered how he might make his case. Meltdown had taken everything else away, it seemed cruel to let him take the Autobrand too. Lost in thought, when Nickel touched him, he jumped, and the scalpel tore up a curl of yellow-gold paint.

To Hot Rod's surprise, she moved back, rolling away on the medical slab to a more respectful distance.

"I'm not trying to give you a really terrible handjob," she said. "You've got an open burn wound, Prime. I have to close it."

"It's important to me," Hot Rod said.

"Right," said Nickel. "I get that, but if you don't cry, I'll let you keep the pieces and I'll give you an energon treat."

It took two more tries, but he finally managed to sit still enough to please Nickel, and he shuttered his optics while she worked. All he heard was the low idling of the other mech's engines and the occasional 'plink' of shards of metal into a bowl sitting next to Nickel. Tarn and the bodyguard cadre were quiet, but Vos clicked and twitched in his spot. Hot Rod wanted to say it took about an hour, but his chronometer still didn't work. When she was finished with the extraction, she washed him off with disinfectant and made him lay back on the slab while she carefully filled the abscesses in his chestplate. Finally, she reset his chronometer, almost as an afterthought. It felt a lot better, but Hot Rod hated to admit it.

"I'll paint it once the fills set," Nickel said. "In a day or so."

She washed off the melted fragments and handed him the bowl as though Nickel thought he would know what to do with them. Hot Rod handled one of them carefully and was forced to admit they didn't even look like the Autobrand anymore. Primus, had those been embedded in his chestplates? With nothing else to do with them, he stowed the fragments in his subspace, relieved to find it wasn't locked, though he reminded himself that the DJD might search him at any moment.

"Razerdust is disgusting slag," Nickel said. "They should have banned it."

"They did," said Hot Rod. "Or at least, the Autobots did."

That hadn't been the answer she was expecting, and she turned a little, to look at Tarn, curious and accusing. He had no answer, and instead the tank beckoned to Hot Rod.

"We're going," Tarn said, without acknowledging his medic's concerns. "Get up."

*** *** ***

Hot Rod walked along next to Tarn and started a mental of list of everyone the leader of DJD was interfacing with.

Megatron. Soundwave. The rest of the DJD. Probably Sundiver. Maybe Deathsaurus.

In other words, no one who had the slightest clue what they were doing.

Tarn had said that Megatron liked to use him, and Hot Rod had no doubt that Tarn cared far more Megatron's pleasure than Megatron had ever cared for his. Kaon, Helex, and Tesarus were blunt instruments. Sundiver and Deathsaurus had been around the block a few times each, but they were warriors first, and Hot Rod doubted they were experts at the art of interfacing. Soundwave, if rumor was to be believed, was even stranger than Tarn was. Vos was the only hangup. If he had been built to be a personal assistant, he probably had some decent courtesan uploads and maybe some mods, depending on what his former owner had ordered. Still, and Hot Rod made this assessment a little guiltily, Vos' processor was damaged. If his language uploads were fragged, his other programming was probably on the fritz too.

 _How hard could it possibly be to seduce Tarn?_ Hot Rod thought. _If nothing else, I'll actually be good at it._

They were headed down a dark corridor when Flux stopped abruptly. "No," was all he said, and Hot Rod glanced between him and Tarn.

Tarn glanced back at him. "I understand," he answered, nodding. "Keep walking, Autobot. I need your assistance, curating."

*** *** ***

Hot Rod wondered why he was surprised that Tarn had a room full of corpses on display.

He guessed he was grateful that Tarn kept it all in the basement and not in his berthroom. He wasn't going to have to recharge down here.

The corpses were all grey with death and arranged with great care, some of them secured on the walls, some hanging from the ceiling by way of wires. Each one had a light shining on it, to draw the optic. Something about the temperature told Hot Rod that this room was climate controlled. He could feel the air circulating, and guessed a secondary system was removing toxins from the atmosphere. Plaques stood next to each corpse, or were mounted on the wall next to them, though Hot Rod wasn't close enough to read any of the glyphs.

It was weird as hell, but not the worst he'd ever seen. It had been a long war.

"My First Editions," Tarn said, in explanation.

So that was it.

No wonder Flux hadn't wanted to come in. Half these mechs had probably been his friends. Most of them looked like miners. Claymore didn't seem to mind, but he stopped just on the inside of the door and went no further. Vos followed them, silent but for the occasional click.

"There's one in particular I think you might be interested in." Tarn took Hot Rod by the arm and guided him through the room, past the various displays. Hot Rod felt something in the tank's fields that he thought might be excitement, and again, he wondered how hard it would be to seduce him.

When Tarn stopped in front of display, they were looking up at Topaz.

Or at least, what was left of him.

His corpse was suspended from the ceiling by wires that punched through his elbow joints, and from where he was hanging, his feet didn't touch the ground. Like the others, he had long gone grey, but the glyphs that made him holy enough for the priests to use were still coiling across his frame, filled in with gold. In life, Topaz had been a two-wheeler, and though he was close to Hot Rod's height, he was far slimmer and lighter. The dead mech's head was missing, but then again, Hot Rod had expected that. After all, he'd been there when it had happened. Someone, Tarn maybe, had tied a thin strip of steelsilk across Topaz's hips, to give him some small measure of dignity. They'd torn out his panels before they'd taken his head, and the memory of it made Hot Rod's tanks churn.

His optics fell to the little plaque.

 _Messenger, Temple Prostitute_  
_Designation: Unknown  
Era: Unknown_

"This is your friend?" Tarn asked, gesturing. "Topaz, was it?"

"How--"

"I've been collecting a very long time," Tarn said. Reaching down, he slid his claws under the lip of the plaque and pulled it up. "If you must know, the Decepticons recovered his frame from the mass grave under the Wall. It's a shame that the Prime destroyed part of the etching, but he's mostly intact."

"Are you trying to freak me out?" Hot Rod asked, and made up a lie. "Because all this is as metal as hell, and it's what Topaz would have wanted."

Under the mask, Hot Rod caught Tarn's optics brightening, just slightly.

"In fact," Hot Rod said, "when I die, I want you to put me in here."

"It's for my First Editions," Tarn returned, his gaze heavy as it slid over Hot Rod's form. "It isn't a trophy room."

"I know that," Hot Rod said, faking a grin and knowing Tarn couldn't tell the difference.

"No," said Tarn. " _You_? You're a First Edition?"

"Topaz did the etching." Hot Rod pretended he was mapping the Tarn's form with his optics. "It's short. Just a few glyphs, but it was done in the Second Resurgence Era, when Sentinel was the Lord Prime, which I _believe_ makes it authentic. Jazz tried to explain it all to me once, but I didn't pay attention."

"You're lying."

"Careful," said Hot Rod. "You were already wrong about Topaz, and if we're sharing a berth, you're going to find it sooner or later. Why lie?"

"You're an Autobot."

"Topaz had no safe space left for more words," Hot Rod said. "We were friends, and there were a _lot_ of sympathizers, before Megatron went crazy."

 _Before he made things like you_ , he thought, but he kept that to himself. If Tarn could read his processor all the time or if the tank had to focus, Hot Rod didn't know. So he chased the thought out quickly and focused on nothing.

Tarn grabbed for him, claws flashing, and Hot Rod felt his spark contract in fear. He tried to pull backwards and bumped into one of the displays, his wings scraping against it. As though he had suddenly noticed what he was doing, Tarn's hands were gentle when they caught him. Claws gripped at Hot Rod's plating and pulled him close. Vos had come forward, enough that Hot Rod thought the rifle might try to intervene, though on whose side, he wasn't sure.

"Where?" the tank demanded. As if noticing his partner for the first time, Tarn glanced back at Vos. " _Leave_."

Without a word, Vos backed away, disappearing between the rows of corpses.

Hot Rod wondered if this had been a misstep, because now they were alone.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote another fic, called Brass and Shadows, which was based on a TF RP campaign which used a setting/system called Exalted. One Light is semi-canonical with it, and Kaon and Tarn have the same backstories as they did there. I'm just noting it because shit in One Light is gonna go kinda off the rails, right here.
> 
> Anyways, here's Deadlock.
> 
> Years in the past, but not many...

[Deadlock.]

Deadlock didn't acknowledge Tarn beyond a flick of his optics. He spared the commander of the DJD only the barest glace before lowering his gaze back to the sights of his rifle. Tarn knew it for what it was, not an insult or a dismissal, but a warning to stay off the comm.

They had been here for nearly a day and a half, hiding in the shadow of an Autobot stronghold. They were sheltered by the wall of a crater on the small moon, and miles away, a mountain range was steadily erupting, raining ash down on them. Deadlock lay in the lee created by Tarn's body, motionless. Combined with the grey of the clinging rain, he was so still he could have been a corpse. The air his frame circulated didn't even stir the ashes. If the situation had not been so dire, Tarn would have admired the curves of Deadlock's frame, its beauty and elegance. He would have spared some time to think on how it would feel to have the other mech writhing beneath him in a berth, but a fantasy was all it was. They both belonged to Megatron. They were for him first.

It was that and Tarn felt consumed by an emotion he rarely felt.

Concern.

He tried again, his thoughts pressing outward, like the blade of a knife.

DEADLOCK.

There was absolutely no response, so Tarn went on.

DEADLOCK.  
WHEN WE FIND THEM.  
I WANT THEM ALIVE.  
AS INTACT AS POSSIBLE.  
NO HEADSHOTS.

Deadlock didn't flinch, though Tarn knew that mechs often found such invasive thinking painful. The sniper's only response was to release the trigger of his rifle, then bring his fingers back to it. An acknowledgment, of sorts. It was the best he was likely to get, so Tarn settled for it.

They lay there, still and unmoving, until night fell. The temperature plunged, and though the eruptions in the distance continued unabated, frost crawled over their plating. The waiting was the worst of it, and it threatened Tarn's precarious grip on sanity. He wasn't chained down, which would have been intolerable, but he felt confined all the same. He wanted to _move_. To purge his anxiety with a few thousand rotations of his t-cog. To rearrange his frame until it burnt itself out and then force Pharma to beg to fix it.

Vos didn't return until two hours later, and though he came across the open terrain between them and the stronghold, Tarn didn't even see him moving. The first warning he got that they weren't alone was the appearance of Vos' claws over the lip of the crater. A moment later, the minibot had come noiselessly over the edge and was laying between him and Deadlock. Vos pressed one hand to Tarn's chestplates, over his Decepticon shield.

i found them  
GOOD.  
SHOW ME.

Vos did, holding nothing back. The sight of what was going on made Tarn burn with rage, power surging through his frame, his biolights flaring. He stood, and Vos understood the intent instantly, leaping into his hands and transforming. A perfect weapon, made to serve a perfect will. Next to him, Deadlock rose to a crouch.

[Here,] the sniper said, and pinged Tarn with coordinates. Without waiting, the white mech took off, moving like a shadow across the crater-pocketed surface of the moon. Tarn followed, under no illusions about his own level of stealth. The Autobots would see him in a moment, if they hadn't already.

In fact, one of them had come to the edge of the stronghold's wall, leaning out and peering over it. Perhaps the Autobot had caught the winking of purple biolights out in the ash storm, but those blue optics were meant for mechs from the top of the world, and despite Deadlock's caution, Tarn doubted their enemies could see exactly what shape Mortilus had come for them in.

Deadlock raised his rifle to his shoulder, and as though he were doing it purposely to defy Tarn, drew a bead on the Autobot and shot him in the head. The sentry's helm came apart in glittering fragments, and he crumpled downwards, falling from the wall. It might have been the ash, but Tarn was fairly certain the frame was grey before it hit the ground.

He would deal with Deadlock later, they had work to do.

Getting a running start, Deadlock magnetized his rifle to his back and leapt up the wall, claws digging in. The athletic feat was impressive, the edifice reached most of the way up the glass of the volcanic cliffs, and he made it more than halfway. Tarn paused at the bottom and threw Vos to him, the rifle transforming in mid-air. Deadlock caught Vos by the hand, swinging him once and throwing him up to the top of the wall. Claws flexed and caught, and Vos vanished over the edge. A moment later, a cable swung down noiselessly.

Effortlessly, Deadlock's frame coiled and he jumped to it, climbing up nearly as fast as Tarn had seen him run.

Tarn was slower, but he caught the cable in both hands and began climbing. Before he reached the top of the wall, he heard a gunshot, and knew there was another Autobot he would never get to work on. He was furious, but he reserved his ire for the slaves of the Prime. 

The moment he cleared the top of the wall, Vos transformed and Tarn snatched the rifle up, letting his partner guide him. An Autobot lay a few hundred feet down the narrow path at the apex, already dead, three-quarters of his helm missing. As he passed, Deadlock drew his sidearm and fired a round into the fallen mech's spark chamber.

"Deadlock--"

There was ice in the glare the other Decepticon returned. "It's a _rescue_ mission," he said, defiant.

There was no time to or point in arguing, and Tarn regretted bringing Deadlock into this. Then again, they wouldn't have been to track the Autobots here without Deadlock's expertise. Had Helex been with them, they would have never gotten so close, and in any case, Tarn had needed to leave the smelter behind to secure the Tyranny. He reminded himself that Deadlock was an assassin, not a propaganda piece, and that it was not his place to course correct the other Decepticon for doing his job in the most efficient way possible.

Turning his back, Deadlock hurried up the pathway, towards the main habitation block of the fortress. Tarn followed, lowering his optic to Vos' sights. The rifle's fields felt confused, jittery.

[Tarn?] he asked.

[It's fine.] Tarn used his free hand to stroke Vos, gently. [For now, do what you think is best.]

[Deadlock is right,] Vos said, hesitation apparent, in the shaky glyphs on the comm. Not for the first time, Tarn wished that the rifle's previous owner hadn't beaten him so badly he was scared to speak up. It was an undesirable trait in a member of the DJD.

[So he is.] Tarn glanced up, at Deadlock's back. [Take me to them.]

Vos guided his gaze to the far wall, on the other side of the courtyard below, where another pair of sentries were patrolling. As Deadlock raised his rifle and fired at one, Tarn lifted Vos to his shoulder, catching the other Autobot in his sights. Primus, if he existed, had reached out his hand to shelter this mech from Tarn's wrath, because when he pulled the trigger, the Autobot's helm disintegrated. The sentry's frame collapsed, a puppet with cut strings.

Instant. Painless.

Far better than he deserved.

Deadlock leaned over and checked below, then vaulted over the crenellations, landing with no sound beyond a light scrape of metal. It was a feat Tarn wouldn't be able to repeat, and he watched as Deadlock moved like a shadow to the main doors, easing the barrel of his rifle inside and firing off two quick shots. With one hand, the assassin reached up and beckoned to Tarn.

Tarn stepped to the top of the rampart and jumped. He landed with a crash that he was sure would rouse the Autobots or sound an alarm, but Deadlock's dispatching of the sentries had cleared the way. He moved to Deadlock's side, drawing himself up to the wall. It was difficult, for a mech of Tarn's size, not to draw attention to himself, but he dimmed his biolights and watched the opposite end of the courtyard.

Noiselessly, Deadlock nodded to Tarn and disappeared around the corner, heading further inside. The frames of two Autobots lay askance in the hallway, one of them shot at such close range that the round had taken out his shoulder strut as well as his helm, and his right arm lay a good distance from his body. Deadlock shot each in the spark chamber as he stepped over them.

Further within, Tarn heard commotion. Not alarms, or the sounds of preparation for battle, but laughter. Cheering.

Encouragement.

He set Vos down, and the rifle transformed.

"Find their ships," Tarn said. "Disable them. None of them are leaving this planet."

Vos looked between Tarn and Deadlock and nodded. He turned on his heelstrut and took off, vanishing down the hallway and into the depths of the stronghold. He would do well, Tarn thought. Vos was at his best with simple, direct orders.

With Deadlock following him, Tarn strode towards the central hall of the fortress.

Although the edifice of black stone and volcanic glass had looked towering from the outside, it seemed that the majority of the fortress was contained in underground levels. When he stepped through the door, he found himself on a balcony, overlooking the hall. Tarn gazed at the scene below him, though he already knew what he would see.

Kaon knelt in the center of the room, his arms secured by chains. Against the wall, Tesarus was bound as well, by the anchoring chains that tethered ships. There were few things that made Tarn truly uncomfortable, but anchoring chains were among them, but he made no outward sign of his disquiet.

An Autobot was pacing around Kaon. A Wrecker. Tarn knew his designation, Cascade.

From the look of it, Cascade had been working on his captive for some time. Kaon was a mess. Both of his hands were crumpled, the fingers smashed and useless, the delicate struts inside them splintered and ruined. Dents and tears covered Kaon's frame, and energon pooled beneath him, from the gaping sockets in his back where someone had torn his coils out. Rivulets of it ran down his thighs, Kaon's modesty panels were missing. Tarn wondered if it had been Cascade or another member of the Autobot's Wrecker cadre - who stood ringed around the room, jostling and laughing.

Both of Kaon's optics were gone, and the sight of it made Tarn's spark burn with hatred

Cascade struck Kaon across the face, sending him clattering to the floor.

"Nothing to say?" the Autobot asked. "Not going to tell me where the rest of your friends are hiding?"

Kaon tried to reply, but all his vocalizer spat was static.

"You goddamn fragger," Tesarus yelled. "Autobot cowards! Come over here and pick on someone your own size!"

A voice from the back rang out. "We'll get to you in a minute!"

"Watch it Firefall," someone said, to the ringing of metallic laughter. "That one probably bites too."

Out of the corner of his optic, Tarn saw Deadlock raise his rifle and take aim at Cascade.

This time, he didn't allow it.

With one hand, Tarn reached over and tore the weapon from Deadlock's hands, then threw it down into the room below.

It was the only warning the Autobots got before he vaulted the railing and landed in the middle of the room, quite nearly on top of Kaon. The moment he was close enough, Tarn felt his spark sing out and his frame react, his form reconfiguring as Kaon was drawn into him and the transformation took place.

Then, they were both gone.

The thing that now knelt the floor was not Tarn or Kaon, nor was it a true combination of the two mechs. It was a demon of brass and black gold and tin, poisonous green light spilling forth from the cracks in its frame, obscenities dripping forth from its six mouths. It widened them and loosed a shriek that tore through the hall, the echoes rising above all else, both in volume and in the scope of their fury. As it stood, the chains that had held Kaon rent apart as easily as steelsilk, and it towered over Cascade, four times his height.

...and though the Autobots received a long and painful lesson in the reasons that rumor claimed Tarn was the Brass-Skinned-Dancer and Unicron's _jouten_ , none of them lived to speak of it.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a brief, non-explict mention of someone having been underage in this chapter. Read with caution.

Hot Rod hit the wall hard enough that the impact knocked the ventilations out of him. One of Tarn's hands closed around his throat cabling, and he bit down on the urge to try and push the tank away.

"Whatever he wrote on you," Tarn said, and the edge in his voice was almost painful, "it's apocryphal."

"I don't know what what word means," Hot Rod said.

"It means non-canonical," Tarn snapped.

"Yeah," said Hot Rod, "that's not helping either. Do you want to see it?"

Tarn's optics slid over Hot Rod's helpless form, eager, curious. "No."

"Then why send Vos away?" Hot Rod wanted to shove Tarn off, and only the still, cold darkness of the Decepticon's fields kept him from panicking. Tarn might have been vaguely similar to Meltdown in frame, but they felt and looked nothing alike. Meltdown was dead, Hot Rod reminded himself of it again. The firebreather couldn't hurt him here.

It took a great deal of effort, but he brought up his hands and stroked Tarn's chestplates, careful not to touch the tank's Decepticon brand. He knew exactly what he was doing, and Hot Rod reminded himself of that too.

It was just like driving, or transforming. You never forgot.

It was what he had been Forged for, after all.

"I think you _do_ want to see it," Hot Rod said, tilting his head forwards, just slightly.

"Where is it?" Tarn said, deflecting the question, as though Hot Rod couldn't tell exactly what he wanted. Just because he wasn't psychic didn't mean he couldn't read Tarn's fields. Carefully, Tarn's clawed hand opened and released him. "Did Meltdown damage the inscription?"

"No," Hot Rod said, "but I wish you cared that much about the rest of me."

"Don't tempt me, Prime." Tarn's hands caught Hot Rod's hips. Primus, he was so grabby. " _Where?_ "

Hot Rod had to suppress a shudder, and he reminded himself of the deal he had made. Tarn was going to do far more than this, but it would be worth it, if it saved just a few other Autobots. Assuming any of them were still alive.

"This isn't a good place for a viewing," Hot Rod said.

"This is the _perfect_ place for a viewing."

Hot Rod rested one hand over Tarn's Decepticon brand, it was a clumsy seduction attempt, but clumsy was the best he could manage. Something told him that Megatron hadn't felt any need for even clumsy attempts. You didn't need to seduce a mech you owned. "I'd be more comfortable on your berth."

*** *** ***

"Get on," Tarn said, authoritative. The tank's gaze was hot as Hot Rod complied, and it lingered on his components. His modesty panels, his chest seam. "On your hands and knees, Autobot."

"You seem pretty sure of where it is," Hot Rod said, doing as he was asked. He raised his wings from the submissive position he had grown used to holding them in and gave them a flick, as though inviting Tarn to join him.

Instead, Tarn's hand came to rest on his aft, and the prick of claws made Hot Rod jerk. "I have a guess," the tank said.

"It isn't under my array panels."

"I know." Tarn's hand stroked over Hot Rod's raised aft, claws pricking. "Somewhere outside, but not visible. Obvious, but not noticeable."

"You're good at this." Hot Rod shifted, wiggling his aft just a little.

"I've done some research on the subject."

"You mean you spend a lot of time in your weird corpse room?"

"Something like that." Tarn's hand traced up Hot Rod's spinal strut, sending a shudder through the captive Autobot. His hand came to rest on a spoiler-wing, and then he gripped it. "Are these sensitive?"

Hot Rod tensed, suddenly confronted with the very real thought that Tarn might rip the appendage from his frame. "Yes," he said, trying to hold still and failing.

"I know Kaon damaged this, so I apologize in advance." There was no hint of apology in Tarn's tone, and he lifted the wing, bending it outwards.

Hot Rod balled his hands into fists and tried not to vocalize anything. It was more uncomfortable than painful, but he could feel the joint straining and protesting. Tilting his helm forwards, he rested it on his fists. The air in Tarn's rooms was cool, and it felt even cooler on the exposed plating that normally rested under his wing.

"You have plenty of inscriptions," Tarn mused.

"I sanded most of them off," Hot Rod said, "but they were filled in with gold, before the war."

"Mmmmm..." Tarn's claws traced the lines of faded glyphs. "This one is from the Covenant. 'Raise your hands up to the sun, cast a shadow over the world'."

"I'm surprised you've read it." Hot Rod nearly gasped with relief as Tarn released his wing. It had hurt, but stopped shy on the edge of being agonizing. Still, having the leader of the DJD touch any part of you that was easy to tear out was nerve-wracking.

"Why?" Tarn's fields swept over him, and Hot Rod shuddered. "I know that Primus exists, your Second Ignition is proof enough of that. I know the Pantheon existed, I've been to their tombs--"

Hot Rod jerked up, the order to kneel forgotten. "YOU WHAT?!"

The Pantheon were the original thirteen (or twelve, depending on what you believed) Primes, the demigods who had been the rulers of Cybertron during the Age of Wonder which had followed the defeat of Unicron. Solus, the Forge Which Mends All Things. Augmentus, the Light Who Cast No Shadows. Lunarus, the Dancer With One Thousand Faces. Delta, the Father of Sorcery. Lawgiver Valorous, Micronus, Onyx, Sinestra and Dextrous.

Megatronus.

"I've been to their tombs, Autobot." Tarn ran his hand over the other wing, catching the tip in his claws and stroking it. It made Hot Rod's hips twist, and he felt trickles of lubricant behind his panels. It was shameful how quickly Tarn could get him charged up. "Kaon wanted to see them, and I took him, after the Well went dark."

Hot Rod chanced a glance back at his captor. "There's absolutely nothing sacred to you, is there?"

Tarn chuckled, and Hot Rod felt the sound curl down his back and pool between his legs, the feeling warm and soft, and he canceled a command to open his panels.

"Purity is for Autobots," Tarn said. "It's absurd and outdated, like your entire faction."

"No need to punch down, Commander."

"I suppose you have a point, and since Kaon didn't damage this one--"

Without warning, Tarn changed his grip and bent Hot Rod's wing outwards, far less gentle than he had been with the other. Yellow warnings flashed up on Hot Rod's HUD and he cried out in pain, despite the previous vow not to. His hands scraped at the bare surface of Tarn's berth, leaving red streaks.

"Now _that_ is a lovely little noise, Autobot." Tarn was purring, a low rumble echoing from somewhere within his frame. Hot Rod had heard mechs purr without realizing it before, and normally, it was considered a bad habit, though he had always found it cute. With Tarn, it seemed sinister.

"Does that kind of thing excite you?" Hot Rod tried not to squirm, ignoring the scrolling reports. Tarn wasn't damaging him, but Primus, it hurt.

"When you do something that excites me," Tarn said as he looked Hot Rod over, "you'll know. More inscriptions from the Covenant?"

"They're all from the Covenant, Tarn. You don't need to pretend it's a surprise."

"I suppose not," Tarn said, and Hot Rod felt the tank's claws tracing, never quite touching the inscription that his wing had hidden. "Ah, here it is: 'Alt-mode Preference cannot be taken as proof of the Functionalist ideal'."

"I know," said Hot Rod, "compared to the rest, it's super dry."

"It's beautiful," Tarn said, venting out softly. His voice was low, reverent. "I need a moment, I've never actually seen a living manuscript. The Prime's pet spy said it was authentic?"

"Jazz?" Hot Rod nodded a little, the sharp pain easing off into a low ache. "Yeah. He also said never to talk about it or show it to anyone, but I guess you'd be the real expert on authenticity."

"It lines up with the script on Topaz's frame," Tarn said, "so I'm inclined to believe you."

"I'm glad you like what you see." Hot Rod flashed Tarn his best fake smile, which looked exactly like his real smile, so he doubted the DJD Commander could see it for what it was. "Do you want--"

"It angers me so much," said Tarn quietly, "to know that Optimus knew you carried this and still used you."

 _What?_ Hot Rod jerked away from Tarn, folding his wings down into the submissive position. He flipped over, to properly look at what passed as the tank's 'face'. "What!?"

"You were a Primal Concubine, weren't you? The veils, the inscriptions. I saw you in the Choir Room." Tarn gazed down at him. "Optimus claimed he never had a mech consecrated for him, but that was just another Autobot lie, wasn't it?"

"He _didn't_ ," Hot Rod spat the words out. "Optimus was interested in the parts of me that weren't my array. How can you _even believe_ \--"

Tarn was still leaning over him, and now, his claws came to rest on Hot Rod's thighs. "Nickel," he said, "told me how old you are, after she did the medical exam. You would have been too young to be---"

So that was what he thought.

Hot Rod laughed, and he stretched on the berth, flicking his wings invitingly, showing off his frame. Reaching down, he ran his hands over Tarn's, guiding them up, though he felt sudden resistance. "Sentinel saw me playing in the street, Tarn. He took me from my Caretakers."

"You would have been--"

"I wasn't finished molting yet. He didn't care." Hot Rod ran his thumbs over the joints in Tarn's wrists, trying to move the Decepticon's hands. "He told me it was what I had been Forged for. Zeta was kinder. He waited until I was form-set, but he still used me."

Tarn's optics dimmed and his fields swirled, impossible to read. It seemed impossible that he could be upset about this revelation.

"How, out of every mech on Cybertron, can the _leader of the DJD_ have a higher opinion of the Primes than me?" Hot Rod asked. "Or were you just that eager to condemn Optimus?"

"It's--"

It was almost delightful to see Tarn off-balance, and Hot Rod guessed that the tank was not a mech who often miscalculated. He ran his hands up Tarn's arms, touching with false eagerness. "Sentinel was right, you know. It really _is_ what I was Forged for." Hot Rod leaned up. "Spike me, use me however you like, let me show you."

Something snapped inside Tarn, and his fields cascaded outwards without warning, black and terrible, the maw of an ocean at night. Frost crawled over the bare surfaces in the room, and the temperature plunged. Hot Rod cringed away, but there was nowhere to go. The tank grabbed him and hauled him up, dragging him off the berth.

"Wait, Tarn, please--" 

"One more word," Tarn said, pointing at him, "and I'll rip out your vocalizer."

Hot Rod should have known that begging wouldn't do any good, and Tarn wielded him to the door and out into the hallway. They were going back to the cell, he was sure of it, and the thought made Hot Rod seize up in panic. He tried to dig his heels in, and felt Tarn strain to drag him. Perhaps it had something to do with his Second Ignition, because Hot Rod knew hadn't been this strong before.

Nothing would be worse than spending the rest of his life in that cell, and Hot Rod knew he had to chance it. 

"Tarn! I'm sorry! Whatever it is I said, I'm sorry!" Hot Rod clutched at the tank's arm, felt Tarn's hydraulics flex. "Let's just go back to your berth."

"I'm not like Sentinel," Tarn said. 

"I never said you were! I don't think that!" Hot Rod reached out to try and touch Tarn's Brand and the Decepticon swatted his hand away. "I wanted to, I promise--"

Tarn's only reply was to resume dragging him. Hot Rod gave up, and scrambled to keep up. They didn't go all that far, and they stopped in front of a set of doors. More crew quarters. Relief washed over Hot Rod. Even if Tarn intended to share him with someone as punishment for whatever slight he'd committed, he wasn't going back into the cell. 

There was a call panel next to the door, and Tarn reached out to touch one claw to the override. The sharpened tip scratched the surface of the key, and then he seemed to realize what he was doing, withdrawing the digit and pressing the chime instead.

The door slid open instantly. It was Vos. 

Hot Rod cried out as Tarn all but threw him at the rifle. He stumbled and Vos caught him, the smaller mech shifting his weight to offer support. Hot Rod couldn't help but to marvel at it, he probably outweighed Vos by three or four times. 

"Thank you for ringing the chime," Vos said. He glanced at Hot Rod, as though the situation were totally normal. "It's polite to ask permission before coming into my room."

"Hot Rod is going to recharge in your berth," Tarn said. "You'll have to use your stand for now."

"Are you alright?" Vos asked Tarn.

"No," said the tank, stepping back and letting the door hiss closed, leaving the two alone.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should note that, well, Tarn is not exactly a reliable narrator (he's a Decepticon, after all) - so don't take everything he says here as gospel truth.
> 
> Tarn himself does not understand much of his own origins, and he's sort purposely embellishing and telling half-truths to freak Deadlock out/get a rise out of him. That's not to say there isn't some weird shit going on with Tarn, but no need to read everything he says as 100% accurate.

Knock Out, the Decepticon Chief Medical Officer, was a mech that Tarn considered to be _profoundly_ unsuited to the Decepticon Cause. 

Before the war, the medic had been wealthy, in a staggeringly high caste, and Ratchet's prized student. While Knock Out's fall from grace had been spectacular to watch from the outside, it hardly served to make him a fearsome Decepticon warrior. 

No, what engendered Knock Out to the Cause was not his physical prowess, though he was far more adept in battle than most Autobot medics. Instead, it was the fact that he was one of the few fully trained physicians who served Megatron, and it was the fact that Megatron enjoyed fragging him. 

...more than that, it was the fact that the Emperor knew that having Knock Out in his possession was hurting Ratchet, and in hurting Ratchet, he was hurting Optimus.

From where he sat at his desk, Tarn was looking up the Decepticon CMO right now, and Knock Out did not look happy. 

"I need more time," he said. 

"Is Kaon going to live?" Tarn asked. 

"He is," Knock about said, "but with the trauma he's suffered, you have to consider replacing--"

"Then you don't need any more time, Doctor."

The conversation was over, and yet Knock Out lingered. That was strange, because Tarn was perfectly aware that Knock Out didn't like him, either personally or professionally. The Decepticon Justice Division made the Decepticon CMO nervous, and Tarn suspected it was because Knock Out knew just as well as he did how unsuited a Forged, former high-caste physician was to the Cause.

"We have to talk about Deadlock," Knock Out said, at last. 

Tarn gazed out at him from behind his mask. Like the other members of Decepticon High Command, Soundwave had spent a great deal of time teaching Knock Out how to shield his thoughts from casual intrusions. It made the medic difficult, but not impossible to read, and Tarn didn't bother trying. "Do we now?"

"He's catatonic," Knock Out said. "Completely shut down. He's seen you work before, so it wasn't that. Deadlock isn't squeamish or faltering. What did you do to him?"

"I can't imagine what was different this time," Tarn lied.

Knock Out creased his narrow, lipless mouth into a frown. "I can't take him back to Megatron like this," he said. "Not without an explanation, Tarn."

It was the only threat Knock Out could make, and unfortunately, it was one what carried weight. Tarn's personal feelings for the Emperor aside, the implication was clear, Kaon was replaceable, a worthless drone, Deadlock was not. The racer's obvious skills as an assassin aside, Megatron liked taking Deadlock to berth almost as much as he liked having Knock Out, or Tarn himself. Megatron had sent two of his favorites to recover and restore Tarn's precious amica endura. It was a personal favor, and such trust was rarely extended, so if Deadlock was returned broken and ruined, there would be trouble.

Tarn glared up at Knock Out, and he sensed a thick ribbon of fear coiled around the other mech’s spark, but the racer didn't back down. 

Fine.

"I..." Tarn began, and then trailed off, because the thought of actually trying to help another mech was so foreign to him that it felt like a new emotion. "I'll see what I can do."

*** *** ***

Deadlock sat in the secondary command throne of the shuttle he and Knock Out had come in. His optics were open, but barely online, burning at the lowest setting. The assassin staring straight ahead, at nothing.

Tarn wasn't entirely sure of how to proceed, he had broken thousands of mechs, but never cared how they might be restored. His thoughts knifed out from his processor, to asses the damage, and Deadlock's energy fields flickered and recoiled. 

So that was all it was. It was going to be easier than he thought.

"Deadlock," Tarn said. "Look at me."

There was absolutely no response. 

"Deadlock." Tarn gripped the arms of the throne and leaned over the white racer, looming. "I've got enough energon on my hands to know when I've ruined a mech beyond repair and when he's just lost inside his own head. You're the latter, so _come off it_."

Deadlock's optics flickered and powered up, and he looked at Tarn.

Tarn was immensely pleased with himself. "See how easy that was? On my way here I was worried I was going to have to cut something off to get your attention."

Silence lingered between them, past the point of awkwardness, and despite his brightened optics, Deadlock still looked unwell. 

"I'm going to kill Kaon," Deadlock said, at last. His voice was dull and low, as though he hadn't used it in a long time. The assassin licked his lips, an addict's old, bad habit, and Tarn was intimately familiar with it. "Maybe not... right away, but you can't watch him every second."

Tarn stepped back, turning the primary command throne to face Deadlock as he sat down in it. He blamed himself, but still, this had to be dealt with. 

"We've all thought about it," he said. "The combiners. Which component is the weakest. Which one we would kill if it came down to fighting one of those things. Wildrider, Scavenger..."

"Swindle," said Deadlock. He locked eyes with Tarn. "Kaon."

"Before you do that, Deadlock." Tarn steepled his claws. "I want to tell you something. I usually only tell mechs I'm about to kill, but I think you'll be able to appreciate it."

"There's nothing you can say to convince me--"

"I don't need Kaon to transform into the Dancer," said Tarn.

Fear seized the other mech, and that taste of it was so sweet, so delectable, that Tarn could feel the energon treat in his mouth. Deadlock's optics were wide, and he looked like he wanted to bolt. It didn't matter, there was nowhere to go. He was fast, but not fast enough to make it to the door of the shuttle before Tarn could grab him. Certainly not faster than a shot from a fusion cannon.

"I need Kaon to change _back_."

"No," Deadlock whispered. 

"Yes," Tarn said, smiling behind his mask. Watching understanding, and then, horror, explode across Deadlock’s expression. 

"So, so that's it, then? You-- you're Unicron? Is that where you got your powers from?" Deadlock cast about for answers, for some sort of explanation, and Tarn delighted in watching him flail. "Does Megatron know?" 

"Don't be foolish. A _jouten_ isn't Unicron any more than a Prime is Primus," Tarn said. "As to the rest, no, and yes."

"Megatron hates religion. The engex of the masses." Deadlock's claws scratched at the arms of the secondary command throne, scoring the metal. "He hates religion and he has... he has a fragging _demon_ working for him?!"

"If the Primes are the servants of Cybertron's common people," Tarn said. "There's no reason I can't be the servant of its Emperor. It's a nice dichotomy, I like to think. It suits me well."

"Where did you come from?" Deadlock demanded, healthy Decepticon skepticism asserting itself and getting a firm grip on him. Much to Tarn's disappointment, it allayed the assassin's fears. "The _jouten _were all destroyed. The Primes killed them."__

____

____

"I don't know," Tarn said. "I was kept imprisoned, in anchor chains made from a dead Titan's spark chamber, until Kaon found me and freed me. He brought me to Soundwave and Megatron." Tarn gestured to himself with one hand. "Obviously, one was missed, otherwise, how could I have come to be?"

"Did you have a Second Ignition?" 

"I don't know. They kept me chained in the dark, locked in inhibitors, near-starving, and out of my head." Tarn gazed at Deadlock. "You'd be the expert on Second Ignitions, wouldn't you? Optimus took your spark back from Mortulis, reached out his hand and cast a shadow over the world to shelter you. His very first miracle. Do you think he's disappointed?"

"Frag you," Deadlock snapped, gripping the arms of his seat and pushing himself up. "You aren't--" He clenched his fists. "You're not _right_. It isn't _right_ , Tarn."

"You had no problem with me before," Tarn said, plainly. 

"You're deeply mistaken if you think I didn't have a problem with you before. I came here as a favour to Megatron, not out of respect for you." He narrowed his optics. "You said Kaon found you? Why change for him?"

"When they were..." Tarn paused, pushing the memory aside. It was in the past now, it didn't matter. "...using me, my jailers wore inhibitors, to keep me from reading their thoughts. So I couldn't learn anything about them, or about myself, I assume."

"Kaon wasn't one of your jailers,” Deadlock said. “He's a drone. An R-Series, from the old electrical arrays."

“As I said, he found me.” Tarn gestured upwards, with one clawed hand. “They were feeding me drones, hundreds, thousands, so many that common mechs started to notice.”

“Feeding you?” Deadlock asked, incredulous. 

“I wasn’t literally _eating_ them, Deadlock. Come now.” Tarn rolled his eyes. “You saw what I did to Firefall and Cascade.”

“The word—“ A shudder of revulsion crawled across Deadlock’s body, and he clawed at himself, like there were scraplets burrowing into him, or he was in the middle of a withdrawal fit. His heelstruts scraped at the cold metal floor. “The _word_ you said, the one that melted out their optics, broke their minds.”

“That was the Senate’s plan for all the drones,” Tarn said, plainly. “Personalities, things like wants and desires, were seen as an... unfortunate side-effect of the cold construction process, and so they had me burn them out of—”

“How many?” Deadlock demanded.

“I don’t know,” Tarn said. The truth, for once.

“Guess.”

“More than two hundred thousand,” said Tarn, “fewer than three hundred and twenty-five thousand.”

“...and what? Kaon just left work one day, rolled up to you, and asked you to stop? Told you to be better? Said that Cybertron was nice and you should come take a look?”

Tarn chuckled. “You’re far closer to the truth than you think.”

“What does that _word_ mean?” Deadlock asked. 

“It’s Unicron’s name,” said Tarn. “His real name, in the Old Dialect.”

“Why do you know it?”

“Why shouldn’t I know it?”

Deadlock vented deeply and shuttered his optics. For a few moments he stayed like that, as though he were in deep thought, or trying to get his bearings. “Get off my shuttle,” he said, at last. 

Tarn rose, and did, wondering if he had said too much. Perhaps he had, because not too long afterwards, Deadlock ran away. To where, Tarn deliberately and pointedly did not know. It would be a shame to kill Deadlock, a waste of beauty, talent, and ruthlessness, and he always seemed to find another traitor higher up on the List to vent his considerable frustrations with Deadlock on. 

He wondered what had happened to the assassin, after the fall of Cyberton and the loss of the Nemesis, but as it was, he didn’t have to wonder forever, because he saw Deadlock again.

...and the next time Tarn saw Deadlock, the racer was begging.


End file.
